


Man's Best Wingman

by potter_queen



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Ian has a dog, M/M, first chapter is just mickey, mickey finds a dog, they bond over their dogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:46:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21806674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potter_queen/pseuds/potter_queen
Summary: Mickey finds a dog. He walks his dog every morning, and there's a certain red haired jogger there everyday who's Labrador puppy just won't leave Mickey's one eyed pitbull alone...
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 94
Kudos: 222





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jaysus I'm just pumping out these Gallavich drabbles. I can't get these boys out of my head! This chapter is just Mickey. Because I love Mickey. And I want him to have a dog, okay?
> 
> Ian will be jogging into chapter two, don't you worry.
> 
> This is just a silly little drabble that I typed up instead of working and didn't bother editing at all. Hope you enjoy!

Shit had been on the up for Mickey since he got out of prison. It hadn’t been easy, at the start, when he was twenty-six and fresh out of jail with no qualifications and no one to give a shit about him. 

The first couple of months were the worst. He’d been locked up since before he was twenty, and shit outside had changed. People had moved on, many of his old haunts had closed down. There was no place for him back home, so he’d bundled together the few items of clothing he had and left the Southside.

He’d spent a couple of months sleeping rough, and as the autumn ebbed into winter, panic started to creep in. He could see his fate so clearly- he was going to be found stone cold and dead in a doorway somewhere.

He’d almost given up and resigned himself to his shitty fate when one evening he had been trudging through town, trying to find somewhere vaguely safe to set up for the night when he had spotted him. An old man, pale in the streetlamp light, struggling to reach the shutters above the little shop he was standing outside.

Mickey hadn’t thought anything of it. He’d jogged up to help. He wasn’t any taller than the man, but with a little jump he was able to grab the hook on the shutters and pull it down. He grunted and nodded at the old man before turning to head off. He’d only made it a few steps when a surprisingly strong voice called out to him.

“What’s your name, son?”

Mickey’s first thought was that no one had ever called him ‘son’ in his life. Maybe that was what made him turn around when ordinarily he might have kept walking.

“Mickey.” His breath condensed in the air in front of him. It was going to be a cold night.

“Well, thank you, Mickey. Bones aren’t what they used to be. Will you give me a hand with these boxes?”

There were boxes at the man’s feet, Mickey noticed for the first time. They weren’t particularly big or numerous, but Mickey couldn’t imagine this old dude being able to carry them all at once. He shrugged and shouldered his bag more securely. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. “Sure, mate.”

He stacked the boxes and picked them up. “Where are you headed?”

“Not far.” The man shook his head and stooped to lock the shutters in place. “Follow me.”

Mickey grunted again but followed suit, slowing his pace to match the man’s pace.

“The name’s Packy. That’s my hardware store back there. Do little repairs and handy jobs too.”

Mickey just nodded. His mind was still preoccupied with where he was going to sleep. There were a few camps around the city, but Mickey hated falling asleep surrounded by junkies. He was constantly paranoid he’d wake up having rolled onto a filthy needle. Fuckin’ STI was all he needed.

After a couple minutes of walking, they reached a small apartment building. Packy opened the door and headed straight to the stairs. “This way.” He nodded at Mickey. Mickey sighed a little but didn’t protest. The boxes weren’t too heavy.

When Packy opened one of the doors on the second floor, Mickey headed inside to leave the packages by a sturdy but worn wooden kitchen table. The warmth in here caused Mickey to shiver. The place was small but very cosy, and there was evidence of a wife here; there was a pair of pink fluffy slippers by the door and there were little glass dishes and funny china ornaments all over the place.

“Thank you, son.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Mickey nodded at the man but didn’t bother attempting a smile. He moved to head towards the door but the man’s voice stopped him again.

“Where are you staying tonight, Mickey?”

Mickey tensed a little and turned back around. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he was heading home now, but something about the old man’s expression made him pause. It was sympathetic without being patronising, and there was a knowing glint in his eye that pulled Mickey up short.

“Ehm. I’m not quite sure yet.”

The man nodded, all business-like, and started to bustle around the kitchen. A kettle started whirring. “You’ll take the couch, then.”

“Wa- What?”

“The couch.” Packy pointed towards a little sitting room. “You’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Oh- no, that’s okay, really, I don’t need-”

“Mickey.” Packy cut him off. “Do you have a job?”

“No. No. I just got out of prison.” Mickey bit back, feeling the need to shock this old man who was being kinder to Mickey than he deserved. A perverse part of him wanted the old man to reel in shock and kick him out of his home.

“You good with your hands?”

“What?”

“You hands, son! I need help in the shop. I’m getting on now, you know.”

The dude was offering Mickey a job. A job and a place to sleep for the night. A  _ warm _ place to sleep for the night. Utterly bewildered as he was, Mickey had found himself nodding. He actually had no idea if he was good with his hands, but this felt like an opportunity to grasp with both hands.

He was thirty-two now. He’d been working in the shop for six years now. He’d slept on Packy and Eileen’s couch for a couple of months until he’d managed to move out into a tiny apartment of his own with the pay he earned at the shop as well as a lot of odd jobs around the place.

Packy had taught Mickey everything he knew about shop keeping and key cutting and electronic repairs before he retired two years ago. He was like a father Mickey had never had, and he counted his lucky stars everyday that he had met him that cold winter’s night.

The first time Mickey saw the dog he was on his way home from work one evening. 

It was early November, and the weather was just starting to change. It was the first day that year that Mickey had had to dig out his hat and scarf, but it wasn’t cold enough yet to change into his thick winter coat, his old brown leather jacket offered enough warmth with his faded blue jeans and work boots.

Mickey’s apartment was on the bottom floor of a three tiered house. There was a tiny front garden and even tinier back garden, complete with two rusty chairs and a rickety old table. Mickey always had his morning coffee and smoke out there, watching the birds peck at the feed he left out every couple of days.

He was just fumbling in his back pocket for his house keys when he spotted him.

He wasn’t too great with names of dog breeds but he was sure that the dog tearing at an old brown paper chip bag was a pit bull. He was by Mickey’s gate, looking skinnier than Mickey thought a dog ought to. Mickey pulled his keys from his pocket and they jangled. The dog startled, looking up at Mickey. One of his eyes were missing, and in its place was a long gash and a lot of crusty blood. Before Mickey could react, the dog had taken off down the street.

Mickey frowned, more troubled by the sight than he cared to admit. There was plenty of strays around here, however, and you couldn’t go getting your heart broken over every sad-looking dog you came across.

He headed inside and forgot all about it while he fixed up his dinner.

~

He was heading out a few morning later when he spots to dog again. It’s huddled in by the side of the house, under a bush. It was a cold night and Mickey things for a moment that the thing might be dead, until he sees the dog’s chest slowly rise and fall. He lets out a relieved breath, and a moment later he’s heading back inside.

There’s some leftover chicken and gravy in the fridge form his dinner last night, so Mickey chucks the lot onto a plate and fills up a bowls with warm water. He creeps back outside and leaves the food as close to the dog as he dares to get.

When he gets home that evening, the plates are empty and there’s no sign on the dog.

Mickey gets into the habit of cooking a little extra meat at night to leave out the next morning. He doesn’t see the dog very often, but sometimes he waits a few houses up for the dog to creep out from wherever he hides from Mickey to wolf down the food. It makes Mickey smile, and he always waits for the dog to finish before he turns around the head to work.

One day when it’s pouring outside, Mickey uses his lunch break to hammer together a couple of planks of wood into a makeshift sort of shelter. When he gets home he leaves the shelter by the wall with a couple of blankets inside.

The next morning he finds the dog there, still sleeping and dry despite the rain.

As the weeks go by, Mickey is strangely pleased to find the dog waiting for his breakfast every morning by Mickey’s door. He won’t let Mickey near him, even though the cut where his eye should be still looks dirty and painful, and he bolts if Mickey moves too fast or accidentally dros something. He lets Mickey sit on the front step and watch him eat now, though, and Mickey moves his morning coffee and cigarette to the front step so he can sit with the dog for a while in the mornings.

Breakfast turns into breakfast and dinner, and Mickey decides it’s his new mission to get the poor thing’s eye cleared up. He won’t let Mickey touch him, but he gets closer and closer every day, till eventually Mickey can just put the food by his feet and the old boy eats it there.

It all comes to a head late December when the snow begins to fall.

It starts about five o’clock and by the time Mickey’s heading home in the evening, there’s a foot of snow everywhere and Mickey is panicking. He’s worried sick about the damn dog.

When he gets home he sits down on his step for nearly an hour, sucking down cigarette after cigarette and watching the dark garden with wide eyes for any sign of movement. Eventually, at nearly ten o’clock, a familiar little face appears in the darkness. Mickey sags in relief before he sees how cold the poor thing is; he’s shivering like mad and soaked through.

Mickey swear and leaves the dog to eat his dinner as he open his door. A waft of warm air and light stream out and the dog looks up, staring at Mickey with his one good eye.

Mickey heads inside and crosses his fingers that the dog has enough sense to follow. He waits a long time, shivering in the cold breeze that’s coming in through the open door. Eventually there’s the sound of cautious paws on the floor, and next think Mickey knows, the dog is pacing nervously around Mickey’s sitting room.

Mickey knows the moment the old boy decides to stay. He’s pacing the floor when he passes the radiator for the first time. The dog stops and sniffs at the warm metal, and then his tense body sags a little, and he lies down in the warmth. He’s asleep in minutes, and Mickey can’t stop grinning, like he’s won the bloody lotto.

After a few days, the snow stops, and the dog leaves. 

Two days later he’s sitting on the step when Mickey gets home from work, and when Mickey opens his door, to dog runs straight inside and heads for his spot by the radiator. He brings big muddy pawprints in and tracks them all over the threadbare carpet, but Mickey doesn’t give two shits.

The day the old boy pads across Mickey’s sitting room and lies his warm head on Mickey’s foot where he’s sitting on the couch, Mickey finally understands the corny saying ‘man’s best friend’. And when Mickey finally gets to clean the blood off his face and wash away all the grime from the streets, the old boy’s tail starts to wag and he licks Mickey’s hand, Mickey realises that he loves this damn dog.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short wee one here. I'm not a hundred percent sure where this is going, I'm just enjoying writing about Mickey as some sort of dog whisperer lol. Why can't we get some Mickey interacting with dogs action on the show????? Why?????

One side effect of being locked up for eight years was a tendency towards routine.

The six o’clock wake up was so deeply ingrained in Mickey’s psyche he was sure he would be waking at six till the day he died.

In prison, six o’clock had meant breakfast at six ten, then out to work by seven. In the real world, Mickey’s little morning routine was slightly more relaxed, though he still found in difficult to stay in bed past ten past six.

In one corner of his tiny sitting room, Mickey had constructed a little miniature gym, consisting of a pull up bar, a couple of kettlebells and a few sets of weights. He would spend a while trying to keep up the muscle definition he had built up in prison (it wasn’t quite working; at thirty four, Mickey was starting to develop a dad-bod).

After his workout, he would shower in his tiny shower, dry off and get into his work clothes. Sometimes he took the time to slick back his hair with a bit of gel, but mostly he just let it do its thing.

Then it was time for food. He’d feed the dog from the big plastic container of dog food and make himself a couple of eggs. Then it was time for his favourite part of his morning. He sat down on his front step with a steaming mug of coffee and his cigarette to watch the sky as the colours changed. Depending on the time of year, he could catch the sunrise, but in wintertime he was content to stare at the stars, and in high summer he’d just watch the clouds.

Since the dog had come into his life, the final stage of his morning was a walk in the park. It had been two years since the dog came into his life, and he’d never tried to put the old boy on a lead. The pitbull was fiercely loyal, and walked beside Mickey as though he was glued to his calf.

In the two years of his early morning park walks, Mickey was as familiar with the other regular walkers as he was with his own neighbours. 

There was the old man who sat in the same seat every day and sucked down a pack of cigarettes before he left at eight o’clock on the dot. There was the woman in the blue leggings who sprinted round the park for fifteen minutes before zooming off through the same gate everyday. There was a night nurse who spent the minutes between her late shift and the first morning bus reading on one of the benches, and there was Mickey.

Occasionally there was someone new in the park, who came once or for a couple of days, and Mickey enjoyed watching them as he walked, creating little back stories for them in his head. He had stories for all the regulars. The old dude had a wife who hated him smoking and didn’t know he snuck out every morning to smoke a pack. The sprinting woman definitely had like five kiddie brats at home, and the only way she could exercise was to do it very quickly before her family woke up. The night nurse had a lot of cats.

On this particular morning, Mickey had caught the sunrise on his front step before he left for the park. The dog’s paw was acting up on him; sometimes he limped a little when he walked, and Mickey couldn’t be sure but he thought it might have been broken at some point. So they were walking slowly, Mickey with his hands in his pockets and his hat pulled down low over his ears.

He’s been walking round the park for a half hour or so when he becomes aware of a faint barking in the distance. The Pit slows beside Mickey and cocks his ear as he walks. The noise gets louder and louder until it’s piercing Mickey’s eardrums and making him whip around to find where it’s coming from.

He sees a flash of golden fur and a flicking tail as a young golden Labrador suddenly descends on them.

Mickey barely registers what’s going on before he hears snarling and snapping teeth. The Pit barks lowly, once, and Mickey dives in before he can think about it.

He steps in between the dogs just before his old boy can reach the pup. He feels teeth clamp around his left hand for a moment as he grabs the Lab by the scruff of his neck and yanks him off the ground, out of harms way. The pitbull is snapping his teeth ferociously and trying to jump up, despite his bad paw. The pup in Mickey’s hand is yelping like mad in Mickey’s ear so loud it hurts. 

“Down! Sit!” Mickey whistles sharply and makes hard eye contact with the Pit, ignoring the pain in his ear till he knows his boy is okay. 

Eventually the snarling and barking give way to a low, stressed out whine, as they always do, and Mickey knows it’s safe to leave the other dog down. He places the Lab back on the ground, and the trembling dog runs straight to Mickey, knitting himself against Mickey’s calf and hiding his head in the crook of Mickey’s knee.

Mickey stoops to rub his old boy’s head just the way he likes it, making low, calming noises and letting the dog know he’s okay. His right hand hurts like a bitch. There’s no blood but there’s going to be an impressive bruise there tomorrow. His little finger feels very fragile, too, and Mickey hopes it’s not broken. He doesn’t give a damn, though, he knows the old boy didn’t mean it, and he’d rather a crushed finger than a lawsuit on his hands.

The old boy was placid and gentle with Mickey, but years of living on the streets and what Mickey suspected was a lot of abuse made him quick to attack, and attack viciously. The lab wasn’t hurt, just shaken, but Mickey had not been so quick once or twice.

Mickey bent down to comfort the two dogs as best he could. The lab pup was shaking like a leaf and despite Mickey’s main concern being his own dog, he scratches behind the soft, golden ears gently and lets the dog stay plastered against his legs.

“Bailey! Bailey!” A voice starts calling. Mickey looks up to find a man running towards him. “Bailey!” The man’s eyes lit up as he spots the dog cowering behind Mickey and he jogs up. 

“Fuck, man, thank you so much!” The man had the audacity to grin at Mickey as he stooped to grab the end of the lead attached to Bailey.

“Thank you is right, shithead! You nearly got your damn dog killed!” Mickey snaps. The stupid man has no idea how close his dog just came to being ripped to shreds by a traumatised pitbull. He hated seeing his old boy get riled up like that. He knew that if anything were to happen to another dog, his one eyed, street reared pitbull would be the one getting put down.

The man’s eyes drop to the pitbull for the first time, and Mickey can see the severity of the situation finally dawn on this idiotic man.

“Shit.” The man pulls off his hat to reveal a sweaty mop of ginger locks. He runs his hand anxiously through his hair. “Shit. C’mere, Bailey. Come on, good boy.”

Bailey doesn’t budge from where he’s squeezed between Mickey’s legs. Against his calf, Mickey can feel the dog trembling, and he feels his anger dissipate. With the dog, at least. Poor sucker didn’t know what he was running towards. Ginger should have had a tighter hold on his damn dog’s lead.

Ginger is still trying to call his dog back to him, but the pup has latched himself on to his saviour and doesn’t seem to have any interest in returning to the big sweaty idiot who let him go.

Mickey sighs deeply and turns his attention to the trembling dog. The angle is a bit awkward, considering he has to look between his own legs to see the damn thing. He rubs the dog’s silky head with his knuckles and makes some soothing sounds the Pit likes when he’s stressed out. Eventually Bailey’s wide eyes soften and his keen whining turns into more of a pant. Mickey ignores the man looming beside him, wringing his hat anxiously in his hands and shifting from foot to foot.

Mickey feels the dog relax between his legs and untwine himself slightly. He stays like that for a while until he feels the coast is clean before he gingerly disentangles himself and steps away from the lab, keeping a hold on his collar in case he tries to make another break for it now.

“Now, play nice you.” Mickey warns his old boy sternly, even though he knows he won’t hurt the other dog now that he’s gotten over the fright of being attacked so suddenly. The pitbull has relaxed again and his tongue is lolling out of his mouth, which was tensed up and frothing only a few minutes ago.

“See?” He continues on to Bailey. “He won’t bite if you don’t freak him out. He’s a big softy.” The pit exhales a huff of air through his nose as if telling Mickey where to go and Mickey chuckles. 

Bailey takes a few, cautious steps towards the other dog, still curious about the other dog despite the fright he gave him. He gets as close as he dares before lying down submissively in front of the pitbull.

Finally satisfied that there won’t be any bloodshed, Mickey stands up and thrusts the lead at Ginger, who fumbles with it before grabbing on tight. The stupid man can barely stand still.

“Fuck. I only got him yesterday and I just nearly got him killed. Fuck.” Ginger looks deeply distressed, and he’s wringing his hat in his hands so hard Mickey thinks it might unravel.

Mickey gives a noncommittal shrug, turning his eyes back to the dog’s in front of him. Bailey is very cautiously sniffing near the pit, who’s standing by passively. Mickey’s not one for chit chat with other dog walkers, but he does love watching the dogs, and he thinks that its no harm for dogs to socialise whenever they can. Mickey feels a bit guilty sometimes that the pitbull doesn’t have a playmate, but so far no more strays have turned up in his garden, and there’s no way Mickey’s buying some designer dog.

“He just took off, you know?” Ginger interrupts Mickey’s thoughts, and Mickey sighs. “We were running and it was fine, and then all of a sudden-” Ginger makes some sort of dramatic movement to indicate the dog taking off. Mickey raises his eyebrow but resists the urge to comment on the gesture. He just nods along. He’s not really listening until he hears Ginger say something that makes his blood boil.

“Should you not have that dog on a muzzle? I mean, he did just nearly kill my dog, and he looks pretty-”

“Looks pretty what?” Mickey interrupts, pulling his hands from his pockets and balling them up by his side. He hates the suggestion that he restrain the pitbull in any way. Sometimes people look at his dog like he’s going to eat their children or something and it pisses Mickey off no end. He rounds on the man, furious. The sensible part of his brain is yelling at him to calm the fuck down and just walk away. “Pretty rough? Violent? What? For getting spooked when your fucking Ladradoodle jumped on him? Fuck you, man.”

Mickey lets out a final, pissed off huff of air, which plumes into vapour in the cold air. He brushes past Ginger and whistles. A moment later he feels his old boy at his side. He can’t help but twist around when he reaches the park gate.

“And learn how to control your damn dog!”


	3. Chapter 3

The shop gets busier and busier in the run up to Thanksgiving; people want their houses looking their best for hosting family dinners and the like. As such, Mickey is run off his feet in the shop during the day, selling every home improvement tool under the sun and offering advice for fixing squeaky doors and leaky faucets.

His evenings are occupied with house calls for bigger jobs or for those who can’t tackle the problem themselves. He’s never really specialised in anything, but he’ll try his hand at fixing anything, and the results are usually more than positive. It’s a handy bit of extra cash, but he never pushes people to pay if they can’t; especially the old folks and single mothers in the area. He’s more than happy to rewire their lights or level their gas meters in exchange for a cold beer and a chat.

He leaves the dog at home for house calls, but the old boy has been following him to work in the mornings for the past two years. He makes for great company on the quiet days, and if Mickey himself wasn’t deterrent enough for potential shoplifters, then the hardy-looking pitbull lying out front more than does the trick.

There’s an old pallet beside the shop door that Mickey sawed in half way back when the dog started coming to the shop with him. It’s tucked up beside the wall and Mickey throws a couple of blankets and a bone there every morning. When the weather is dry, the dog is happy out there all day; watching people pass by and snoozing. He comes inside whenever it starts to rain or he’s feeling hungry.

Mickey had worried that Packy might think the dog would be bad for business or some such rot, but the old man had fallen in love with the dog as quickly as Mickey had. Mickey even suspects that the dog likes his old boss more than Mickey himself, but maybe that just has something to do with the scraps of bacon Packy wraps in tissue and takes down to the shop every morning to feed the dog when he thinks Mickey isn’t looking. 

It’s the day before Thanksgiving and Packy has wandered in, bang on eleven o’clock as always. The old man hasn’t worked for a couple of years now, but he comes in to the shop everyday at eleven with a flask of tea and a bacon sandwich for Mickey. 

He says his wife, Eileen, can’t break the habit of twenty years of making her husband a packed lunch every morning. Mickey suspects that they just like looking after him, but he’s not complaining. No one had ever made Mickey a packed lunch when he was a child. He’d spent his lunch times at school stealing sandwiches and juice boxes from other kids in the playground, just so his stomach wouldn’t growl and embarrass him during the rest of the day.

He thinks maybe Packy gets it, or maybe he’s just kind. Either way, he’s happy to spend the quiet hour from eleven to twelve chatting shop with the old man over a cup of tea.

“How’re ye, Mick?” Packy comes bustling in through the door, letting in a blast of cold air. The dog trots in happily after him, already drooling all over the floor Mickey just swept clean.

“How’re ye, Packy?” Mickey parrots back with a grin. It had taken him a while to crack the Dublin accent that thirty years in Chicago never shook from the old man, but now he likes to imitate some of his mannerisms to see the amused look he gets in return.

“Funny, big man.” Packy shucks off his coat and surreptitiously drops a handful of bacon strips at the dogs feet. Mickey rolls his eyes and pretends not to see, concealing his grin despite the fact he’ll be wiping up grease stains now along with dog slobber.

“Grubs up, kid. Tart, too, the missus is cookin’ up a storm. She loves this damn American holiday.” Mickey prises open a biscuit tin to reveal a giant slice of apple tart, covered in thick custard. It’s still warm, and Mickey can suddenly sympathise with the dog’s drooling.

“Jesus,” Mickey moans around a spoonful of tart. “She tryna get me fat, or what?”

“Just whettin’ the ol’ appetite for tomorrow. She’ll have your head if you’re not round by three.”

“Right.” Mickey shifts a little on his stool, his tart losing its taste a bit in his mouth.

“What’s wrong, son?”

“Nothing,” Mickey is quick to reply. “Nothing.” Probably too quick. Packy leans down on the counter as he unwraps his own bacon sandwich. The amount of ‘rashers,’ as Packy and Eileen call them, that they get through here is shocking.

“Don’t look like nothin’.” Packy eyes him knowingly.

Mickey puts down the tin of tart. “Look. It’s just. I don’t want to intrude, you know?” He rubs his bottom lip. “It’s a family day.” Your  _ real _ kids will be there, Mickey doesn’t add. Do they really want Mickey there, hanging around with their son and daughters and their brood of grandkids. He’s been invited every year, and every year he’s managed to convince Packy and Eileen that he’s visiting Mandy for the holiday. This year, he accidentally let slip that Mandy spends every Thanksgiving on a beach in Hawaii and Eileen had practically pinned him down till he agreed to attend their Thanksgiving.

Packy snorts and rolls his eyes and Mickey knows he’s lost this argument before it’s really started.

“Mick.” Packy licks a glob of ketchup off his thumb and looks Mickey in the eye. “You  _ are _ family, ye big thick. Think I’d trust this shop with just anyone? Think we’re inviting any ol’ Tom, Dick or Harry round for this feckin’ American hoopla holiday? Huh?”

Mickey rolls his eyes and shakes his head, trying to hide the lump in his throat by gulping down a mouthful of hot tea.

“No. You’re not flesh and blood, son, but you might as well be.”

Mickey gulps his tea and can’t quite look straight at the man who has been more of a father to him than Terry ever was.

The moment is broken when the door opens and the little bell rings as a customer comes into the shop. Mickey hops up, glad of something to do with his hands while the lump in his throat threatens to choke him. As he passes Packy, however, he claps his hand down on the old man’s shoulder.

“Thanks, man.” He coughs gruffly, trying to keep his voice even. “You too.”  _ Dad, _ he can’t quite add. He thinks Packy hears it anyway.

~

Thanksgiving that year dawns blustery, bright, and fucking freezing cold. Mickey likes this type of weather, the kind where he can wrap up in his big winter coat and walk for hours without much chance of meeting anyone. Before he leaves for his morning walk, he wrangles the dog into a warm, black dog coat. No matter how tough the old boy looks, Mickey knows he feels the cold.

The pit looks up at him resentfully with his one eye as he takes a few steps in the coat to get used to it. 

“Don’t look at me like that, man. You’ll be grateful for it when we get outside. Fuckin’ freezin’ out there.” The dog huffs but walks to the door anyway, sitting down and looking at Mickey impatiently.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘get a move on, asshole,’ I hear ya. I need a fuckin’ coat too, you know.”

Mickey pulls on his big coat and pulls up the fluffy hood. A decade ago he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a fucking _fluffy_ _hood_. These days, he wears what the fuck he wants. He likes how cosy the damn thing is, and every time he pulls it up he hears his father snarling ‘ _fag’_ in his ear for not being _man enough_ to brave the cold, and it just makes him wrap up tighter. It hurts, now, to think back to himself as a child, with no gloves or hat no matter the weather, being kicked out the front door into the cold mornings to ‘toughen up.’ It makes him feel sick.

Mickey pats himself down as he heads out the door, double checking he has his gloves and his keys and his smokes. He’s not working today, and he plans to go for a nice, long walk to clear his head before he heads to Packy and Eileen’s place for dinner.

The Thanksgiving spirit must have somwhoe infiltrated Mickey’s system, because he’s in an uncharacteristically good mood. First port of call is the park, so he can see if the night nurse was working last night, and maybe even wish the old smoking man a happy holiday. He might even wish the jogging blue-leggings woman a happy holiday if she doesn’t speed past him before he can get the words out.

His holiday-themed daydream is brought up short when he reaches the park. The crystal-clear image of the park in his head is totally marred by the gangly ginger man and boisterous golden lab bounding around the park.

It’s so rare that there is a newcomer to his morning park routine that the sight is more than a little jarring. He’s not  _ quite _ a newcomer, though, as his mind helpfully supplies. The dog’s name is Bailey, and the jogging ginger is his incompetent owner.

Mickey frowns to himself a little but doesn’t let the expected visitor put too much of a dampener on his good mood. He steps through the little gate that leads into the park and tries to begin his peaceful lap of the park.

_ Tries _ being the operative word, because the moment he and the dog step foot inside the park, Bailey’s golden head whips around and he’s pulling his big ginger owner directly towards Mickey.

The pair reach the gate in a matter of moments, and Mickey prepares himself for another peacekeeping endeavour. Luckily, however, Bailey has enough self preservation to stop a few feet in front of the pitbull and lie down, his tail still wagging like mad on the ground.

“Hey,” Ginger pants, all sweaty and smiling. “Christ, he’s stronger than he looks. Managed to keep a hold of the lead this time though, eh?”

Ginger gazes at Mickey, still grinning like a goon, as if he’s expecting praise from Mickey for mastering the most basic level of dog walking. Mickey just grunts and watches the dogs. Bailey has crept up to the pitbull now, and is joyously sniffing his nether regions. Mickey snorts to himself in amusement; dogs are so predictable.

“Oh, hey!” Ginger is still blabbering on. He has started jogging on the spot, and despite himself, Mickey’s eyes are drawn to the man. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

It takes all of Mickey’s learned social skills not to laugh in the guy’s face. He can’t help it. A combination of his good mood and the sight of a grown man jogging on the spot with his junk bouncing around like nobody’s business is nearly giving Mickey the giggles.

“Oh,” the guy holds up his hands and grins, like the pair of them are sharing a joke. “Gotta keep my heartrate up.”

“Course you do, Rocky.” Mickey lets out a sudden snort and tries to hide his grin behind his hand.

“Can’t cool down till I get inside. I’ll catch… a cold or something. Not quite sure how it works.” Ginger just keeps smiling like a dope, displaying his set of perfectly proportioned, sparkling white teeth. Mickey can’t help but notice the soft creases around his mouth and his bright eyes. He’s always had a thing about pretty eyes.

“Well then you better keep moving, hey buster?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Ginger shrugs ruefully. “Well, it was good to see you again! And your dog, too.”

Ginger starts to jog away, tugging at Bailey’s lead till the pup takes the hint and starts moving off again. Mickey watches Ginger’s long legs as he jogs off, so pale they practically reflect the light. Ginger’s yellow running shorts are obscenely short; Mickey even thinks he catches a glimpse of ass cheek once or twice. He doesn’t start walking again until Ginger and Bailey have disappeared out of the park. He knows what he’ll be picturing tonight in the privacy of his own bed.

  
_ Damn _ , Mickey thinks to himself with a sigh.  _ I really need to get laid. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas y'all. If you're not having a great holiday, then hopefully this little slice of Mickey's life sheers you up a little. Thanks for reading :))


	4. Chapter 4

Ginger becomes a park regular.

It makes Mickey’s morning stroll a little more chaotic, with Bailey trying to get the old boy to play with him and Ginger bouncing around in his obscene short shorts. 

Mickey finds that he doesn’t really mind, though. In fact, these days, he’s almost looking forward to seeing Bailey every morning and scratch the spot behind his ears that he likes so much.

Much more concerning than his daily anticipation to see the labrador, however, is the way Mickey finds himself looking forward to seeing Ginger.

Their little morning interaction has become as much a part of Mickey’s routine as the walk itself. He’s become so used to seeing Ginger’s big, toothy smile and his ridiculously long legs glowing white in the morning light.

Ginger greets Mickey like an old friend every morning, asking him how he is and talking about his own life, always jogging on the spot like a fucking idiot. It is endlessly amusing to Mickey; the way the man can’t seem to stop moving for even a moment.

Ginger is always in the park when Mickey arrives, no matter how early Mickey gets there. He always finds Ginger jogging around the park, Bailey at his side. He is as reliable as the smoking old man and the night nurse. After a couple of weeks, Mickey forgets what the park was like without him.

~

Christmas comes and goes; Mickey spends the day alone in his apartment with the dog, lounging around in his boxers drinking beer. Packy calls him at twelve and Mickey insists that he’s having a great time in Mandy’s house in Aurora. Mandy calls a few hours later and Mickey tells her that Christmas is going great at Packy’s.

He spends his few days off lying around, eating and drinking and steadfastly ignoring the gym equipment in the corner. He doesn’t even bother walking the dog for a few days; if he wants some exercise, he knows where the door is.

It’s a little jarring, after his few days ignoring society, when Mickey arrives in the park to find Ginger sitting on a bench.

Bailey comes over, as usual, with his tail wagging to greet them by the gate. There’s a tennis ball in his mouth, which Mickey has never seen him with before. He spends a few minutes playing with Bailey before he eases the ball from his mouth and throws it into the middle of the park. The two dogs take off, leaving Mickey to take a good look at Ginger and start towards him. 

He’s not in his running clothes, and he looks so different in his jeans and hoodie that Mickey almost doesn’t recognise him. He has his hood pulled up and his shoulders are slumped. He’s not even fidgeting a little. 

An unexplainable sense of dread builds up in Mickey as he crosses the park. Something is definitely wrong.

Mickey reaches the bench and his suspicion that something is wrong is confirmed when Ginger looks up. The look on Ginger’s face is like a punch to the gut. His mouth is set in a line; no trace of the smile Mickey looks forward to seeing every day. His face is grey and his hair looks dirty, and the bags under his eyes are so dark they look painted on.

All of Mickey’s funny remarks about stolen booty shorts die on his tongue. He just stares, and Ginger stares back. His green eyes are blank and it scaring Mickey.

Their staring match is broken when the dogs reappear by Mickey’s side. Bailey has the ball and the pitbull is panting like an old man. Mickey grabs the ball distractedly and throws it as far as he can. He fidgets for a few minutes before sitting down on the bench.

Ginger is still watching him and Mickey casts around frantically for something to say. Everything he comes up with seems fucking inane. He doesn’t want the silence to go on for too long, but all his stupid brain can supply to him is-

“Hey.”

A weak smile passes over Ginger’s face.

“Hey.”

Bailey runs up to Ginger and drops the tennis ball at his feet. The weak smile on Ginger’s face strengthens a little as he bends to scratch the dog’s ears and throw the ball for him again.

“They’re great, aren’t they? Dogs. For the bad days.”

“That’s what this is?” Mickey’s voice is shakier than he would like. He can’t seem to look away from Ginger’s ghostly pale skin. “A bad day?”

Ginger huffs out a laugh and moves his arms to hug himself. He looks small. Fragile.

“Yeah. And trust me, this is a lot better than they used to be. You should have seen my bad days when I was eighteen. I’m medicated now. It helps.”

The cryptic language is baffling to Mickey. Medication? Is Ginger depressed? He never looked it until today, smiling and jogging and laughing at his own jokes.

“My sister, Fiona thought it would be a good idea for me to have a dog. Force me to get out of the house when I’m having a bad day. I guess it’s working.”

“Are you,” Mickey starts. Stops. Coughs. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Thanks. Just, you know. Shit going on. Catches up with you. One little thing tips you over.”

Mickey can relate to that. He’s had those days, when life gets so overwhelming he had to just  _ run _ . Used to happen a lot when he was a teenager, living at home with a tyrannical, white supremecist father intent on beating the faggot out of his son. He could cope, for weeks, then something would happen and he’d have to get out. He always went back, though. Sometimes he wonders if he ever would have left for good if he hadn’t been thrown in jail.

“What tipped you over?”

Ginger laughs again, humourlessly. “Something stupid. Well, kind of. It might get me kicked out of my apartment yet. Seemed like the end of the world.”

“What was it?” Mickey knows he’s pushing, but for some reason it seems very important to find out. Maybe it’s just to distract himself from the obtrusive thoughts of Terry.

“Bailey, he likes playing with the ends of the curtains. I’ve tried everything but I can’t get him to stop pulling at them. I mean, I don’t give a shit about the curtains, really, I was just scared he was going to pull the rail off the wall. Guess what happened?”

“He pull the rail off?”

“Yep.” Mickey huffed out a laugh. It was a funny thought. Certainly not the end of the world, but he could see how it could push someone stressed over the line.

“Tore out a bunch of plaster, too. There’s a big fucking whole in the wall, and I’ve no money to fix it! Landlords coming in the new year to assess the place. Soon as he sees that, I’m out, and heading back home with my fucking tail between my legs. I won’t even get my deposit back.”

Bailey is back, and Ginger throws the ball, hard, grunting at the exertion. He leans forward and drops his face into his hands. Mickey is at least glad to see him moving again.

“The plasters all torn off?”

Ginger nods desperately.

“Dude, you’re not getting kicked out.” Mickey nudges his foot with a grin that Ginger can’t see.

“Yes, I am.” His voice is muffled. “On my third strike.”

“I can fix that shit, man. Replastering’s a piece of piss. Bit of paint, screw the rail back up, be good as new.”

Ginger lifts his head slowly out of his hands, staring at Mickey with wide eyes. “You’d do that?”

“It’s my job, man.”

Ginger’s face crumples, and he shakes his head. “I can’t pay you.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and bends down as Bailey returns with the ball. “No charge. We’ve all had bad days. Good to know you’re not alone.”

He throws the ball and gets to his feet, cracking his knees and blowing into his hands to warm them up. He pats down his pockets till he finds a stub of a pencil and an old receipt. “What’s the address, Annie? I’ll come round this evening.”

Wide eyed, Ginger recites his address diligently. Mickey pockets the receipt and whistles to the dog. He nods at Ginger, who’s still watching him like the sun suddenly started shining out of his ass, and heads for home.

~

Work seems to pass slower than usual that day. Packy comes round as usual and grills Mickey about his Christmas. Mickey bullshits his way through a couple of passable anecdotes than convince the old man that Mickey didn’t spend his time off alone on his couch. He deals with the few customers that come meandering in, and deals with the backlog of calls from over the Christmas break. 

By six o’clock he’s practically buzzing. He’s had the pile of materials he knows he’ll need to patch up Ginger’s house ready and waiting for hours. He’s out the door the moment he can, stomping off down the road in his workboots and toolbelt to find the address scrawled on the back of the gas station receipt.

He finds the place without much bother; he knows this area well after years of house calls. The building is similar to Packy’s, tall and old but well kept. Ginger’s apartment is halfway up the building, but unlike in Packy’s building, the elevator actually works. Mickey hesitates for a moment before he steps inside, glancing at the dog apprehensively, but he remembers Bailey upstairs and his concerns dissipate.

The metal doors clunk closed in front of him, and Mickey gets a good look at himself in the shiny silver surface. He tries to push his hair into some sort of style, but gives up on the rest of him. His denim shirt has seen better days, and working in a hardware store guarantees stains and tears. His work jeans are ancient, worn at the knees and fraying at the ends. The sleeveless work gilet that he loves so much for work is bulging in strange places where the convenient pockets are crammed full of measuring tapes, odd nails and old packs of gum.

Still, Mickey is aware that the whole ‘scruffy workman’ thing is passably sexy. There’s something about the toolbelt and grime that Mickey can acknowledge is a good look. There have been plenty of men and women over the years giggling breathlessly and touching his arms to attest to that. 

He shakes his head as the metal doors slide open. He doesn’t even know if Ginger is  _ gay _ . Plus he’s clearly having a tough time right now. Mickey needs to get his mind out of the gutter and focus on just getting the task at hand completed. Do what he knows. Do what he’s good at.

He knocks on the door, and Bailey’s familiar bark welcomes him through the wood. A moment later, the door swings open to reveal Ginger, looking a hell of a lot better than he was that morning. He’s still pale, and the dark bags are still evident under his eyes, but he has clearly showered now. Gone is the baggy hoodie, and in it’s place are smart green trousers and tightly fitted matching shirt.

Mickey can’t help the way his eyes roam over Ginger’s body. They snap back up to Ginger’s face as his mouth goes dry. Mickey has always loved a man in a uniform.

“Paramedic, huh?” Is all his stupid brain can supply.

Ginger grins sheepishly, still standing in the doorway and making no move to let Mickey in. 

“Yeah.”

Bailey squeezes through the men’s legs to get to the pitbull, tail wagging and barking excitedly. It seems to snap Ginger out of his trance and he steps back to let Mickey inside.

“It alright I took the dog? I don’t, usually, but seeing as he knows Bailey, I thought-” Mickey begins as he drops his stuff to the floor in Ginger’s hallway.

“Yeah!” Ginger is crouching beside the two dogs and rubbing the dog’s back. “That’s fine, of course. I think he’s a good influence on Bailey.” Ginger smiles up at Mickey, his green eyes twinkling in a way that makes Mickey swallow.

“So, eh, this wall?” 

“Right. It’s just through there, trust me, you’ll spot it right away.” Ginger points through a door and Mickey nods before following his directions.

The door leads into a small kitchen and living area. It’s clean and neat, apart from the pile of rubble and tangle of fallen curtains beneath the totally exposed window. Mickey huffs out a laugh and turns to stick his head back through the door where Ginger is still crouched by the dogs.

“Fuck me. Lively fucker, isn’t he?”

Ginger grimaces and gets to his feet, brushing dog hair off his uniform. “Yeah. It’s bad, isn’t it? Listen, if it’s too much, you totally don’t have to-”

“It’s fine, man.” Mickey grins at his babbling. “It’s not a big job, just looks impressive. It’s all just surface plaster, you see? I’ll patch that up and let it dry for a day, then come back and stick the rail back up.”

“It can be fixed?” Ginger looks so surprised that Mickey has to laugh again.

“First rule of DIY. Everything can be fixed. You just gotta figure out how.”

Ginger is staring at him with eyes full of something that Mickey can’t quite place. It makes the smile slip from Mickey’s face and he turns away. He clears his throat and starts again, feeling awkward.

“The biggest problem will be matching the paint, really. Don’t suppose you have any of this colour lying around?”

Ginger shakes his head, that worried frown coming back, and Mickey finds himself rushing to clear that expression from his face.

“Don’t worry about it. I brought some colour charts of what we have at the shop. I can match them up and bring round whatever fits best tomorrow.” Mickey roots around in his jacket pockets till he finds the bundle of strips of card he’d brought along. They’re mostly creams and beiges; classic rental wall colours. He nods again when Ginger doesn’t say anything and stashes the cards back in his pocket.

“Right, well. First things first. You gotta broom?”

Ginger snaps out of his silence with a jolt, bolting away from Mickey towards the kitchen area. 

“Yes. Shit, why didn’t I sweep? It’s just been sitting there for days, I don’t know why I didn’t- aha!”

He locates a broom tucked beside the fridge and crosses the room back to Mickey, covering the space in a couple of strides of his stupidly long legs. He makes to start sweeping but Mickey just eases the broom from his hands.

“Easy, tiger. I got this. You just- go do whatever you’d usually be doing.”

Ginger stands awkwardly by, shifting on his feet and looking uncertain. “You sure?”

“Yes!” Mickey laughs and shoves his shoulder. “Go. Shoo.”

“Okay. I’ll just be-” Ginger steps away, gesturing awkwardly towards the kitchen. “Making dinner. That okay?”

“Your house, man.”

Ginger finally retreats to the kitchen, leaving Mickey to pull his headphones out of his pocket and turn on the bluetooth on his phone. They’re the stupid-looking joggers headphones, connected by a silicon stringy thing that Mickey wore under his chin for about a week before he figured out it was supposed to hang behind his neck. He only bought these damn things after he’d lost yet another single earbud.

He turns on an old favourite; a Sex Pistols album he’d found when he was fifteen and angry and raging at the world, shucks off his jacket and gets to work.

Easy manual labour, as always, does wonder at clearing Mickey’s head. He sweeps up the debris and folds up the curtains. He rolls the curtain rail to one side and mixes up his plaster. He nods at Ginger when he steals a chair from the kitchen to stand on. He could probably reach if he stretched, but he still gets a kick every time he does something that would have pissed off his father. He imagines Terry hissing  _ fucking fairy _ as he climbs cheerfully onto the wooden chair, Johnny Rotten yelling in his ear all the while.

It’s not long before a delicious smell starts to mingle with the overwhelming stench of wet plaster. Mickeys stomach rumbles suddenly, and he’s reminded that he hasn’t eaten since eleven, when Packy called round.

After a couple of minutes, Mickey’s traitorous stomach rumbles again, and Mickey chances a glance around to see what Ginger is cooking. There’s a couple of pots bubbling away on the stove, and Ginger is stirring one of them with a spoon. It looks like tomato sauce from Mickey’s perch, with what he suspects are meatballs. Ginger glances up and Mickey snaps his head back around, because  _ christ _ , he’s wearing an apron, and Mickey suddenly knows exactly what he’ll be fantasising about tonight. 

Mickey tries to finish up hastily, a bit flustered by the knowledge that behind him, there’s a fit man in an apron cooking up a storm. He slops plaster into the gaps in the wall and smoothes them over with a metal pallette till the wall is smooth and good as new. Or at least it will be, when it’s dry.

Mickey dismounts from the chair of sits on it while he wipes his tools clean and puts away all his equipment. When he stands and turns, he finds Ginger standing awkwardly behind him. Mickey tugs the headphones out of his ears, hoping the poor guy wasn’t standing trying to get his attention for too long.

“Hey, man. All done. For today, at least.”

“That’s great. Thank you. Listen, I, eh. I fixed you a plate. If you want some food. To say thanks, you know. If you want it.”

Mickey’s stomach grumbles in agreement. Mickey opens his mouth to decline; he doesn’t want to intrude, but behind Ginger, there really are two plates set up on the table, and well. It would be rude to refuse now.

“That would be great, man. Haven’t eaten all day.”

Ginger’s face lights up like Mickey just told him his birthday is coming early, and any fears Mickey had about intruding on this guy’s dinner disappear. 

“Smells great.” Mickey comments as he sits down. The table is actually  _ set _ , with cutlery beside the plates, a pair of glasses and a jug of water. There’s even a little stack of napkins in the centre of the table. 

“Probably smells better than it tastes.” Ginger says ruefully. “I’m not exactly great at cooking.”

“I was in prison for six years. Trust me, all food tastes fucking great to me.”

“Six years, fuck.”

Mickey hums and starts to cut all his spaghetti into shorter pieces. He’s never figured out how to do that fucking swirling thing, and he’s sure as shit not about to try it now. He waits patiently for the inevitable questions. Five, four, three, two…

“Why?”

Mickey smiles to himself. Perfectly timed. He spears a meatball and chews it thoughtfully.

“So, I’m twenty, right? Get myself nearly fucking killed one night, end up in hospital. I’m in there a few weeks before the fuckers start to get suspicious. How’s this southside kid able to pay all these bills, right? Send a couple of pigs to find out where I’m getting the money.” Twelve years later, Mickey still feels the need to explain that he didn’t get caught for being fucking sloppy.

“I was a pimp, at the time. Anyway. Place got shut down. I got ten years in the big house. But hey, overcrowdings a bitch, right? Out after six.” 

He doesn’t mention being arrested in the hospital. Doesn’t mention spending weeks cuffed to a hospital bed, being treated like dirt by even the nurses who had been so sympathetic when he first arrived in the hospital, beaten and bloodied. Left for dead in an alley by his own father and his queer bashing friends.

“Fuck, I remember that.”

“What?” Mickey’s mind snaps back to the present.

“The Rub ‘n Tug, right?”

“What the fuck?” 

“Shit.” Ginger is staring off thoughtfully. “I remember all the girls on the streets after it shut down. The ones who weren’t arrested, anyway.”

“Stop.” Mickey feels sick. He grabs his glass and shakily pours himself some water. The dog appears by his side as he gulps it down frantically. Mickey’s hand drops to the dog’s head automatically. He’s always had the strange ability to sense when Mickey is freaking out.

It’s the one thing he has never been able to forgive himself for. Leaving those girls with no home, no money and barely any English when he was supposed to look after them has haunted him more than any of his father’s words, any of the beatings he took, any of the fear he grew up knowing. Lying in the hospital bed, completely alone and in agony, he’d felt so useless, so helpless, knowing there wasn’t shit he could do for Svetlana, or Nina, or any of the other girls who trusted him with their lives.

“How the fuck do you know that?” Mickey’s voice is shaking. The dog whines and presses his head up into Mickey’s palm. Ginger is staring at him now, with wide and fearful eyes.

“I was there. I- we grew up in the same neighbourhood. I thought you remembered.”

“We- what? Who are you?”

“I’m Ian Gallagher. I was friends with Mandy. We went to the same high school. You were in my brother’s year. Lip Gallagher. We were on the same Little League team. I worked in the Kash n’ Grab. You used to steal from there like everyday. I thought you knew who I was.”

“Gallagher? You’re one of Frank’s kids?” Mickey latches on to the one thing that doesn’t make pain spark in his chest. Never finishing high school. Watching the kids play baseball, never being allowed to join in. Making runs around the city, stealing what he could from every fucking store to fill the empty cupboards at home.

“Yeah. Well. Nephew, technically. But yeah.” Ginger-  _ Gallagher _ replies.

“Shit.” Mickey tries to remember Ian, but the only Gallagher that comes to mind apart from Frank is Lip. He was in Mickey’s year and Mickey remembers hating his fucking guts. Frank, he knew fairly well. Liked, even. He’d been a regular customer of Terry’s, and one of the few that hadn’t made Mickey’s stomach turn when he’d had to deal with him. He vaguely remembers a red haired kid hanging around Mandy for a year or so before Mandy had taken off with some boyfriend before she finished school.

“I thought you knew, man. I recognised you straight away.”

“Shit. Shoulda said something. Fuck, I thought I’d changed in twelve years. Guess not much.”

“Nah, you have. But. I don’t know. I guess you’re pretty distinctive. I was surprised, though. Hadn’t heard anything about you in years and then suddenly, there you were.”

Distinctive. Right. Mickey runs his thumb over the faded  _ u-up. _ Try as he might to leave his past behind him, it seems it’s always just behind him.

“You don’t remember me at all, do you?”

Mickey looks up to find Gallagher watching him carefully. His face is unreadable. Mickey shakes his head slowly.

“Nah, man. Sorry. I was in survival mode every day of my life, back then. Don’t take it personal.”

Gallagher huffs self-deprecatingly and starts the twirl spaghetti perfectly round on his fork. He doesn’t reply, though, so Mickey goes back to his food. He’s lost his appetite, but he works his way slowly through the plate anyway. After all, food is food, and Mickey is grateful for every meal he gets.

They don’t speak for the rest of the meal, and Mickey makes to leave as soon as he’s finished eating. He shrugs on his jacket and picks up his stuff.

“Same time tomorrow work for you, Gallagher? Won’t take as long next time.”

“Sure.” Gallagher attempts a watery smile. Mickey attempts a smile back, but gives up and just nods instead. He steps out of the apartment with the dog at his heel. Gallagher watches him cross the hall to elevator and Mickey waits until the doors have opened to turn around.

Gallagher is still standing in the doorway. The soft light coming from within the apartment illuminates him from behind. Mickey has the strange thought that he looks like an angel, tall and strong with a halo of flaming red. How he doesn’t remember this boy, he’s not sure.

The moment stretches as they wait for the elevator doors to close. Eventually, when Mickey’s eyes have started to sting from not blinking, they start to slide shut.

They’re almost closed when Gallagher’s voice floats through to him.

“Bye, Mickey.”

The doors close and Mickey knows he’s fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well!
> 
> Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas. 
> 
> You should probably know that I don't read through this once I've finished writing, so I'm sure there are lots of little mistakes. If any of them are jarring enough to interrupt your flow, please let me know and I can correct them.
> 
> Also, if you have any feedback, stuff you like, things you don't think work, please let me know! I want more than anything for this to be an enjoyable read, so any feedback would be very much appreciated!
> 
> My discord account is meridian (after my favourite brand of almond butter), and if you ever want to chat about this fic, or gallavich, or life in general at all, just send me a message over there. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this wee chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

That night, Mickey barely sleeps. 

He’s thinking about prison. About the girls walking the streets. About his father attempting to beat him to death.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

They’re normal things that keep him up, along with the day to day worries about running a shop and paying rent and taxes. All the adult shit. They’re the worries he knows. The worries he’s comfortable with.

That night is different.

It’s not the normal shit keeping him up. It’s fucking Gallagher.

He can’t stop thinking about his big, blank eyes looking up at Mickey from the park bench. Can’t stop thinking of how small he’d looked; how fragile. The way he asked Mickey to stay for dinner, voice anxious and hopeful. How he stood to watch Mickey leave. The way Mickey’s name sounded coming from his lips.

He’d spent the evening wracking his brains, trying to remember Gallagher from his childhood in the Southside. He couldn’t understand how he’d missed the red hair, the eyes, the enchanting spark of  _ life _ .

He had awkwardly brought up Gallagher’s name to Mandy on the phone that evening. She called him most evenings, to rant about the lack of babysitters in her neighbourhood or the long hours her husband works. She always asked him about his day, and listened patiently to his boring anecdotes about leaky taps and records he couldn’t get to balance. He often wondered if she called because she worried about him, or if she was more lonely than she let on, in her big house with her kids. Either way, he always let her be the one to hang up, and chatted for as long as she wanted; no matter what he was missing on the telly.

“Ian Gallagher?” She had laughed. “Shit, now there’s a blast from the past. You must remember him, Mick, he was in our house practically every day for a year when I was sixteen. He was my fake boyfriend.”

“Your  _ fake  _ boyfriend? What the fuck, Mands.”

“Oh, yeah. It was great, dead handy. I was his beard. He kept the creeps away from me. Took me on actual dates. It was nice, even if we never had sex.”

“Hold up, his beard? Gallagher’s gay?”

“Well, that one is, yeah. He went a bit looper after I left. Last I heard of him he was in some mental house somewhere.”

“A mental house? What, like a hospital?”

“Yeah, sure. Not sure why. Maybe he tried to top himself, that usually gets you thrown in.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. I don’t know, though. Why are you asking, anyway? How do you know him?”

“He came into the shop today.” Mickey lied before he could think about it. For some reason, the truth seemed too private to tell. “Dog pulled his curtain rail down. Turns out he lives near me. I didn’t know who the fuck he was, but he remembered me for some reason. Seemed kinda put out that I didn’t remember him, to be honest.”

“Yeah, I’d say so.” Mandy had snorted inelegantly down the line. “How the fuck did you not remember him? He was fit as fuck, as well. How did your horny, gay ass not notice him?”

“Fuck off. Believe it or not, I didn’t spend my teenage years drooling over guys.”

“Well. I guess that’s actually true. Too scared to look twice.”

The conversation fell silent then. They didn’t often talk about Terry, or what he had done to both of them. It was a daily struggle for Mickey not to let himself be defined by the abuse he had endured for so long, and it had taken years and a lot of heartache to accept his sexuality. He knew Mandy struggled too. Probably a lot more than even Mickey did.

“You can look now, though, right Mick?”

“Yeah. I can look now.”

“So how’s he looking now, then? Gallagher? He still fit?”

With that, they steered the conversation back to less dangerous waters, and Mandy was off, reminiscing about the boys she had banged as a teen, leaving Mickey to silently freak out over the new information about Gallagher.

He was  _ gay _ , for a start. Mickey had had his suspicions, but he never really trusted his own ‘gaydar,’ as Mandy liked to call it. Hearing his hopes confirmed was sending his mind to all sorts of dangerous places.

Mental hospitals, though. Fuck. And Mandy’s casual remark that he might have tried to kill himself. He couldn’t really confirm any of what she said, of course, and he suspected her memory of that time might be as rocky as his own. But still, it was freaking Mickey out. He let Mandy ramble on and on about Brad Reed, whoever the hell he was, and tried to suppress the desire to run back to Gallagher’s apartment to check he was still okay.

Even after Mandy had finally hung up, Mickey hadn’t been able to get the guy out of his head. He was on Mickey’s mind all evening and all night, and he didn’t get a fucking wink of sleep.

His sleepless night caused Mickey to sleep right through his alarm. He wasn’t able to go for his morning walk, wasn’t able to see Gallagher and ease his worries, and so, fucking typically, spent the whole next day worrying about the fucker too.

He was so antsy by six o’clock that he was practically fucking vibrating. The skin around his thumbnails was red and inflamed after a day of abuse by Mickey’s teeth. A loose thread on the sleeve of his jumper had been pulled into a hole by his restless fingers.

At last, closing time came. Mickey was so anxious to get the fuck out of the shop and to Gallagher’s front door, he fumbled with his keys and dropped them twice. As soon as the shop was locked up, he was legging it up the road.

He didn’t even bother trying to fix his hair in the elevator, this time. Instead, he focused on trying to return his breathing to a normal rate. It worked, mostly, and then finally, finally, he was knocking on Ginger’s door.

Mickey hadn’t even lowered his hand when the door swung open.

There he was, looking less pale than the previous day. He was smiling too, a real smile, his  _ proper _ smile, the one that Mickey waited for each morning.

The relief of seeing that smile had Mickey grinning too, like a loon. They just stood, fucking grinning at each other, for far too long, but Mickey couldn’t bring himself to care at all. He’d gladly stand there all day, paint tin in hand, smiling at Gallagher in the doorway, as long as he could see that smile.

It was Bailey who broke the moment, of course. He jumped up at Mickey, tail wagging and barking loudly. His sharp nails caught the sensitive skin of Mickey’s upper thigh through his jeans, and Mickey winced, bending down to rub the spot and say hello to the dog.

“Shit. Sorry about that. Bailey, sit!”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. C’mere, boy. That’s it.” Mickey scratched Bailey’s soft belly, causing the dog to whine and calm down, rolling straight onto his back as if to say ‘go on!’

Mickey just laughed and obliged. When he glances up he finds Gallagher staring at him. He’s still smiling but it’s softer now. Mickey clears his throat and gets to his feet.

“So, eh. I shouldn’t take as long today. Lick o’ paint. Wait for a half-hour. Then I’ll stick the rail up.”

“Sounds good. I’m looking forward to having curtains again.”

Mickey grins and hums his assent as Gallagher leads him into the main room again. The place is warm and cosy, and Mickey grins to himself when the dog heads straight towards the dog bed by the radiator in the kitchen. He lies straight down and cocks his head at Bailey; ‘got a problem?’

“He’s a shit guest.” Mickey nods at the dog and Gallagher chuckles. 

“Poor Bailey. He just wants to play.”

“I can see that.” Bailey has appeared from what must be Gallagher’s bedroom, a long ropey toy in his mouth. He trots up to Mickey and lays it at his feet, tail wagging happily.

“No can do, man. I’m on the clock. Go bother Raggedy Ann.”

“Raggedy? And I thought I was so well put together.” Gallagher feigns offence as he stoops to grab the toy from the floor.

“Ah, sure. You have that, how do they say?  _ Je ne sais quoi. _ ”

“The fuck I do! You’re just running out of nicknames?”

“That what you think, carrot top? Guess I’ll just have to get more creative then, won’t I?” Mickey waggles his eyebrows lewdly and Gallagher laughs.

“Guess so.”

The painting only takes Mickey a couple of minutes. The paint he’d brought along was nearly an exact match; you could only tell it was a slightly different shade from up close. The plaster had hardened nicely and Mickey had to take a minute to admire his own handiwork when he’d finished with the paint.

“Looks good.” Gallagher comes to look at the wall and holds a beer out to Mickey.

“Thanks.” Mickey grins and accepts the bottle. It’s Heineken; his favourite brand. 

“So, we just gonna watch this paint dry, yeah?”

“Shut up, man.” Mickey nudges Ginger with his elbow. “You got a better idea?”

“Not really. We could at least sit down, though.”

“That we could.”

They sit down on the old couch; the only seat in the room. It’s the type of sitting room that doesn’t see many guests, Mickey thinks. One couch pointed right at the TV nestled between bookshelves on the opposite wall. A coffee table with one coaster. 

There are photographs on the wall, though. The frames jut awkwardly out from the wall in a wall that tells Mickey they’re hung up on those bulky, removable plastic hooks. They’re filled with pictures of smiling people, and it makes the room feel less lonely.

“Can I take a look?”

“Hmm?”

“At the pictures.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Go ahead. They’re mostly my family. Hey, you might recognise Lip.”

Mickey stands up again and walks to the closest photograph. The photo is a little crooked in the frame, and it looks pretty old. He spots Gallagher, well,  _ Ian _ he supposes, seeing as they’re all Gallagher. 

Ian looks much younger, and the sight of him vaguely jogs Mickey’s memory. There’s a red-haired girl, a pretty brunette and two other boys. They’re all leaning in close and smiling. The decor behind them is rough and ready but Mickey can sense the closeness between the siblings. 

It makes him think with a pang, about his own siblings. Mandy, who he loves, who although he considers a close friend now, he barely spoke to when they were teenagers. She ran off with some boyfriend when Mickey was eighteen, and he hadn’t seen her again till she’d come to visit him in prison. And his brothers, of course, who had been more like fellow gang members than family. He hadn’t spoken to either of them in years.

“Fuck. That’s Lip alright. He still a self-righteous prick?”

“Pretty much.” Gallagher snorts. He doesn’t seem offended. “He never liked you, either.”

“No?” Mickey is more surprised by the fact the Gallagher brothers apparently sat around gossiping about him than he is by the news he wasn’t well-liked. “Don’t think anyone did, at the time.”

“I liked you.” 

Mickey turns his head in surprise. Gallagher is still sitting on the couch, clutching his beer.

“You didn’t know me, man.”

“I did. Kind of. I was around your place a lot when I was friends with Mandy. I thought you were cool.” He grins sheepishly, like he’s telling a secret.

“Yeah? Well, that’s good, I guess. I tried very hard.” 

So hard he apparently hadn’t taken the time to look up long enough to even notice the people hanging around his house. It wasn’t so much that he’d tried to be  _ cool _ , as a teenager. It was more that he tried, really fucking hard, to seem as though he didn’t care. Didn’t care that he had no friends. Didn’t care that he was shorter than every guy his age. That he was poorer than everyone else. That his own father hated his guts.

“I remember you being really good at Mario Kart.”

Mickey’s inspecting another picture now, this one featuring all the siblings looking much more grown-up. The ginger girl has a kid on her hip, and there’s some guy standing next to the brunette. Gallagher’s comment makes him laugh, and he turns to face him again.

“I haven’t played that shit in years, man.”

“No?” Gallagher is grinning, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I think I have it somewhere. It would give the fifteen-year-old in my so much satisfaction to beat you at it.”

“Is that a challenge, Firecrotch? I’ll have you know that raw talent cannot be eroded by the passing of time. Get the game, bitch.”

Somehow the half-hour Mickey had planned on waiting for the paint to dry turns into a full hour. And then two.

Their beers are left forgotten on the coffee table, and slowly the distance on the couch between them decreases till they’re knocking elbows.

It’s been years since Mickey has played any sort of video game, and Gallagher takes great delight in destroying him in the first couple of games they play. After a while, though, it seems Mickey does have some sort of natural talent, and he’s able to give Ginger a run for his money.

It’s the most fun Mickey has had in a long time. It’s the silly, mindless type of harmless fun that he should have experienced more of as a child. He feels like a teenager all over again, laughing and jostling with Gallagher; just playing for the sake of having fun.

It gets darker and darker outside till the only light in the room is coming from the TV and the street lamp streaming in through the bare window. It’s peaceful, even with the sounds of the game and their own voices. The pit is still sleeping in the kitchen, and Bailey is chewing on a bone by Gallagher’s feet. 

Eventually, Mickey manages to put down the controller. He tries to ignore the disappointed look on Ginger’s face.

“I’m just going to hang up your rail, man. You want to hold one end for me?”

“Sure! Will I get chairs?”

“Well. You probably won’t need one, beanstalk.”

“No,” Gallagher all but giggled. “I guess not. What do I need to do?”

“Get the light, for a start. Then just come here and hold the end steady while I screw it in.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

Gallagher stands patiently, holding the rail above his head while Mickey nudges it into place; checking the spirit level balanced on the wood until he’s satisfied that it’s straight.

His arms must be aching by the time Mickey’s drilled all the holes and screwed everything into place, but he doesn’t complain. He just holds steady, biting his lip in concentration. It’s cute, and Mickey takes his time while he works, smiling to himself and stealing what he hopes are subtle glances to Gallagher’s face.

“There,” Mickey says when he finishes, and Gallagher sags his arms down. “All done. Now grab a curtain. See the little hooks in the fabric? Hook them onto the loops.”

“Like this?”

“By George, I think he’s got it!”

“Shut up.” He sniped back, but he was smiling.

“Well,” Mickey says when he’s finished. “That’s that.”

He steps down off his chair and swings his arms by his sides, unsure of what to do. He doesn’t want to leave, but it’s getting late, and Mickey has a dog to feed. He can practically feel the dog glaring at him from the kitchen.

“Listen. I should get going.”

“Right, of course! Listen, Mickey thank you so much for this. It was really decent of you, and I really appreciate it-”

“Alright, alright!” Mickey interrupts with a laugh. “I get it, I’m a handyman hero. You don’t need to thank me, it was no bother.”

“Still. Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah. I really better head. You know, before my dog eats your dog.”

Mickey gathers up his stuff reluctantly and heads for the door. Gallagher follows behind him, watching Mickey with big, sad eyes that remind Mickey of a puppy in a shelter.

“I’ll see you around, alright Gallagher?”

“Ian.” He blurts. “Call me Ian. Or Firecrotch. I kinda liked that one.”

“Alright.” Mickey grins. His face fucking hurts from all this smiling. “I’ll see you around then. Ian.”

The dog’s already in the elevator, effectively telling Mickey to get a fucking move on. Mickey shrugs to Ian and follows the dog into the elevator. Ian waits, as he did before, for the elevator doors to slide shut. The last thing Mickey sees is his Ian, smiling softly, hand held up in farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter five! Holy moly. This is becoming a lot longer than I had anticipated, but I'm really enjoying writing it. Tell me, do you prefer a slightly longer fic like this or should I think about starting to wrap it up?
> 
> Should I be including a trigger warning on this fic after this chapter? I don't really believe in trigger warnings for mentions like this, but I don't want to break any AO3 guidelines. Let me know!
> 
> Also, I just downloaded Grammarly today, and it's telling me I have like 20 mistakes in this chapter... but they're not mistakes, they're just recommending the American spellings of words. Cozy? Offense? They look so completely and utterly wrong to me. 
> 
> I absolutely adore getting your comments and hear what you're thinking about this fic! Any criticisms, advice or suggestions for the direction of this fic are fantastic! 
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading this, hope 2020 is going well for you all so far!   
> (Discord; meridian)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter isnt that great
> 
> i have written it like five times and i cant do it again :/ whats to come is better, i just had to get over this weird hump.
> 
> i'm so sorry it took so long for anyone who has been waiting!

Some mornings, Ian would be waiting for him by the park gates with a hot cup of coffee in his outstretched hand and a wide smile on his face. Those were Mickey’s favourite type of day.

It was getting harder and harder to deny the fluttering in his chest every time he saw the dumb freckly face and stupid red hair. It was getting harder and harder to care about denying it.

Bailey usually reached him first, travelling as far as his extendable lead would allow. That morning was no different; he was welcomed into the park by an excited blonde dog attached to a smiling redhead.

Mickey reached out and took the coffee cup with a grin, trying not to feel disappointed when their fingers did not brush. Ian made up for it with the bashful smile he sent Mickey’s way.

“Hey.”

“Hey, man. Thanks for the  _ uisce beatha _ .”

“Wha?” Ian frowned in confusion. Mickey blushed.

“It means water of life. It’s the Irish for whiskey, but. Applies to coffee for me.”

“You speak Irish?”

“Eh, no,” Mickey scratched the back of his neck. Sometimes he felt more Irish than Ukrainian. Terry did not exactly inspire a love of his roots in him. Packy’s smattering of Irish words and customs were more comforting to him than any of the Ukrainian slurs Terry had taught him. “Just something I picked up.”

“I’m Irish,” Ian said thoughtfully. “Well. Kind of. I’ve never been. Frank was Irish anyway.”

“I don’t know, man,” Mickey teased. “You’re like a ginger Captain America. Bought as Irish as I am.”

“I’ll take it,” Ian replied good naturedly. “Steve Rogers is a badass.”

They walked around the park in silence, grinning at each other as the woman in blue leggings sprinted by them, nearly knocking Ian’s cup out of his hands.

“Hey,” Ian began randomly as Mickey was draining the last of his Americano. “You any good with leaking pipes?”

“Wha-?” Mickey spluttered, choking on the coffee in his throat. What felt like a gallon of hot coffee had gone down the wrong pipe, and Mickey had to cough to not choke on it. His eyes streamed as he stared at Ian.

“Pipes…” Ian said weakly. A beet red blush had rapidly spread up his neck. “My sister- she has a leak- oh my God.” Ian trailed off, hovering awkwardly as Mickey regained control of his breathing.

_ “What?” _ Mickey said again, having barely heard Ian over his own choking.

“My sister has a leak in her house, I said I might know someone who could fix it for her -you, I mean. Do you think you could?”

“Oh,” Mickey wiped his watering eyes. “Yeah, I can do pipes. I’ll take a look at it anyway.”

“That’s great!” Ian’s face split into a grin, his blush already long gone despite Mickey’s lingering embarrassment. “When suits you? I can give you a lift over,” he began to babble. “I go there a couple of times a week, -she lives in the house I grew up in- and we all have dinner-”

“Ian,” Mickey cut across him. Ian turned to him, biting his lip. The movement caught Mickey’s attention for a moment but he forced his gaze back to Ian’s eyes. “How’s tonight?”

  
  


~

  
  


It turned out that Ian had grown up only minutes from Mickey’s old house. 

Mickey had not been back in the area for years, and it felt very strange to see the streets he had roamed for so many years.

They passed The Alibi, and Mickey twisted in his seat with a jolt, staring at the old building in shock. It had been painted a navy blue.

“They painted The Alibi,” Mickey said weakly. He stared after the old pub even when it had disappeared behind them, remembering collecting debts for his father there when he was a kid, drinking himself to a stupor there in his teens, and worst of all, the girls upstairs, turning to him every day with hungry bellies and blank eyes, relying on him for things he had never felt qualified to provide them.

“Oh, yeah. They did that a while back. You okay, Mick?”

“Y-yeah,” Mickey twisted back around to face front. “Just weird being back.”

“I get that,” Ian said with a sigh. “It was so strange when I first came back. Felt like I wanted to bolt again.”

_ Again? _ Mickey wondered silently, but he didn’t ask. Ian’s knuckles were white against the wheel.

Finally they pulled into a house on the corner. There were a couple of cars parked out front, including, mysteriously, an old ice cream van that looked like it hadn’t run in years. The grass was patchy and unkept, but all the lights inside were burning brightly.

As soon as Ian unlocked the door, a flurry of noise erupted from within. Mickey followed Ian inside, slightly dazed. There was a radio on, several children were screaming, and there was some sort of banging coming from upstairs. There was a shout of delight and then Ian was being attacked by a woman with a lot of ginger hair and a dripping spoon in her hand.

“Debbie! Hi!” Ian hugged the woman warmly. Mickey could only assume this was his sister, if the hugging and the identical hair colour were anything to go by.

“You look great!” Debbie enthused, shoving the spoon to his lips. Ian licked it obediently and moaned appreciatively. The sound went straight to Mickey’s dick. Mickey coughed to try to distract himself from the image of Ian’s pink little tongue lapping at the spoon, and that’s when Debbie noticed him.

“You must be the plumber!”

“Well-” Mickey began, ready to tell her that he wasn’t  _ exactly _ a plumber, when her eyes widened suddenly and she gaped at him.

“Mickey Milkovich!” She placed him suddenly, to Mickey’s surprise. “I didn’t know you were-”

“Debbie!” Ian cut across her loudly. She looked between them with her mouth hanging open.

“A plumber…” She finished lamely.

“Debbie,” Ian said to her with a glare, “why don’t you just show Mickey the leak?”

“Right,” she nodded. “C’mon then, handyman,” she added to him. “Let’s go get wet.”

Mickey snorted but dutifully followed her towards the stairs. He spared one last glance at Ian, who had stepped into the sitting room only to be immediately surrounded by several children.

“You look well, Mickey,” Debbie was saying as she climbed the stairs. Mickey tried not to stare at her ass as she climbed. “Last I heard of you you were running the Rub n’ Tug.”

“Yeah,” Mickey said with a sigh. “Lifetime ago now.”

“Straightened out, did you?” Debbie turned to him with a twinkle in her eye as she reached the top step.

“Something like that,” Mickey winked, and she laughed. Her face fell when she turned to face the bathroom, however. She sagged visibly in front of him, leaning up against the doorframe. She was really quite pretty, in a soft, motherly sort of way, but in the stark light streaming out of the bathroom she looked much older than Mickey knew she must be.

The bathroom floor was covered in sopping wet towels, which were wrapped around the exposed pipe under the sink and spiralled out from there. Even as they watched, water dripped noisily into the bucket wedged under the pipe. Debbie sighed deeply beside him. 

“I  _ just  _ emptied that. I tried to tighten the bolts and stuff, but I think I just made things worse. Carl took a look at it, and he  _ definitely  _ made it worse. My water bill was huge last month.” Mickey didn’t know who Carl was, but he suspected he might have been responsible for the plastic bags and duct tape which were wrapped around the pipe.

“Hmm,” Mickey said thoughtfully. “It’s probably not the pipe itself, you know. Might be the main’s supply behind the tiles.” He stepped forward, ready to take a look, but a warm hand caught his elbow and he turned to find Debbie biting her lip.

“Look. I don’t like to worry Ian, but I really don’t have as much extra cash as he might think. I can’t really afford… I mean… I didn’t call a plumber for a reason. I can do maybe, fifty bucks but-” She was broken off by a baby’s cry from downstairs.

“Hey,” Mickey patted her elbow awkwardly. “Don’t sweat it. I don’t charge when there’s kids who need feeding.”

“What?” Debbie asked, confused. “You mean-”

“I’ll do it for free, no worries. It’s not a big job anyways.”

“No, I can’t expect you to-”

“Alright, look at it this way. When I was a kid, I earned my keep stealing from passed out drunks. Frank Gallagher was a damn goldmine. And I knew all the spots he liked to pass out. Think of that as payment, okay?”

A slow but genuine smile spread across Debbie’s features, and she looked young again. “Shit, who knew that piece of shit would come in handy now?  _ Thank you, _ Mickey. Seriously.”

The baby wailed again downstairs. “Go,” Mickey said with a grin. She smiled at him again gratefully before taking off down the stairs, splattering a bit of pasta sauce on the bannister as she went.

~

The leak, as Mickey suspected, was not hard to fix. He did, however, get absolutely saturated in the process. His jeans stuck to him uncomfortably, and he had had to take off his shirt to wring out the water when the pipe had let out one final, enthusiastic spurt of water.

When he was finished he threw the piles of wet towels into the bath and located a few dry ones to scrub the slippery tiles dry. Then he stepped out of his wet boots to head back downstairs without tramping water all the way down the stairs.

“Hey,” he called out to Debbie. “All fixed.”

“What!” She cried, abandoning whatever she was doing to rush to the stairs. “Just like that!”

“Just like that,” Mickey confirmed with a laugh. 

“Holy shit. Can I keep you?”

“If you dry me off, sugar.” 

She reached out to push his shoulder playfully, which was when she realised he was sopping wet. “Oh fuck. I literally need to dry you off. Ian!” The last she yelled rather than said, and Mickey turned for the first time towards the sitting room.

His eyes locked with Ian’s and a thrill of heat ran through him like he’d been shocked. Ian was staring at him, his jaw set like stone and his eyes dark. He stood up slowly from the circle he’d been sitting in with the kids and a pile of lego. His eyes didn’t leave Mickey’s as he walked round the couch. 

Mickey suddenly felt very, very exposed. His white t-shirt was sticking to his skin, and he knew that Ian could see everything; his pink nipples, the smattering of chest hair that twisted into a dark trail that led down… down…

“There’s dry clothes upstairs.” Ian said gruffly. His eyes flicked to his sister and then to the ground. He squeezed past Mickey, seemingly straining with the effort of staying as far away from Mickey’s body as he could. He bounded up the stairs two at a time.

Mickey turned back to Debbie, who was still smiling mildly like no massive shift had just occurred between Ian and Mickey. Ian was attracted to him, Mickey was sure of it now. He had wondered, before,  _ hoped _ , even, but those dark eyes had confirmed it.

“Go change. You’re staying for dinner.” Debbie commanded, pushing at him till he began to move back up the stairs. “No excuses!”

“Wasn’t making any,” Mickey teased lightly, before he began climbing. 

One of the bedroom doors was open when Mickey reached the landing. He cautiously entered, hyper aware that this was the room Ian had grown up in. There were three beds, but Mickey knew immediately which had belonged to Ian. On the walls surrounded the bed under the window were army recruit posters featuring buff, shirtless men. 

“Here,” Ian said quietly, holding out an old pair of sweatpants and a faded hoody.

“Thanks,” Mickey replied, equally as quietly. This time, when Ian reached out, his fingers brushed against Mickey’s knuckles. Their eyes met and Ian sucked in a breath. A moment later, Ian drew away, avoiding Mickey’s eyes.

He hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Immediately, Mickey pressed the heel of his palm against his dick through his damp jeans and groaned as quietly as he could.  _ “Fuck,”  _ he hissed, willing his body to calm down. He breathed deeply for a minute until his erection faded. A bit of eye contact and a brush of fingers and he was hard, Christ, that was sad. He needed to get laid.

He dressed quickly, and folded his wet clothes into an awkward little pile before heading back downstairs. The table was set when he walked into the kitchen, and more people had appeared. A young man with light brown hair was drinking a beer next to a black teenager who would have looked out of place had he not looked so at home, bouncing the ginger baby in his lap. Two more little ginger haired girls sat on either side of Ian, who was smiling at them and listening to them babble excitedly. 

Mickey hovered awkwardly until Debbie turned away from the stove and spotted him. She nodded at the chair beside the brown haired man and he shuffled into it, feeling horribly out of place, especially when the man started staring at him. Suddenly, he clicked his fingers.

“Mickey Milkovich! I didn’t know you were-”

“Carl!” Ian cut him off, scandalised. 

“What! It’s not a big deal, I’m half-”

“Carl! Mickey was here to fix the pipe.”

Mickey stared in bewilderment. How did this whole damn family know who he was? He was saved from further confusion when Debbie dropped two pots straight onto the table, one filled with spaghetti and the other with a thick tomato sauce that smelled great. Debbie took the seat next to Mickey and leaned in to him when she had finished cutting up spaghetti for her kids.

“That’s so full of vegetables, you’re getting like ten of your five a day.” She winked conspiratorially and Mickey laughed. He’d never had to feed a kid, but he guessed that hiding veggies in sauce was a trick of the trade.

The dinner was… nice. Carl seemed to have a creepily in-depth knowledge of Mickey’s criminal history, which he grilled Mickey about with concerning fascination. The black kid, whose name Mickey learned was Liam, eventually told Carl to ‘talk about something normal,’ which Carl grudgingly did.

Ian took on the task of feeding one of the little girls, and every so often their eyes met across the table, and Mickey’s cheeks would heat up. Ian looked so sweet, patiently spooning little mouthfuls of food into the child’s parted lips, laughing and wiping her little chin when she spat it back out again. Mickey kept getting distracted by it, losing track of the strange conversation Carl was trying to engage him in about ninja stars, of all things.

Finally, it was time to go. Mickey felt ridiculously self conscious wearing Ian’s clothes, which were way too long and embarrassingly snug. Debbie hugged him and made him swear to come back. Carl told him to ‘keep it real,’ and the little girls giggled and waved at him. At long last, he was back in the passenger seat of Ian’s car.

He let out a long sigh and leaned back into the seat. Ian glanced at him nervously. 

“Hey, sorry about that. I didn’t realise she’d make you stay…”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I like her. She’s great.” Mickey replied honestly.

“Oh,” Ian said.  _ “Oh.” _

Mickey yawned and stretched. “Thanks for the clothes, man. I’ll get them back to you in a day or two.”

“S-sure. Don’t worry about washing them, I can get that.”

“It’s no big deal, I can-”

“No!” Ian interrupted. Then blushed. “Really, I don’t want to put you out anymore.”

He started up the car and he drove them home. The car was quiet, but so peaceful. Outside, the streets were dark, and Mickey leaned his head back, watched the streetlamps blur by. Before he knew it, they were at his apartment. He yawned.

“Thanks for the lift, man.”

“No, thank you Mickey. Debs was really stressed out about that.”

In the dark, Ian’s green eyes only seemed to shine more brightly. They glittered like little stars in the dim car, so earnest and sweet. Mickey swallowed heavily as he climbed out of the car.

“Anytime, man.” He meant it.

  
  


~

  
  


Mickey owned two pairs of jeans.

The first were his work jeans, of course. He practically lived in his work jeans. He wore them every day, no matter where he was going, and they were worn and comfortable and unflattering.

The second pair of jeans Mickey lovingly referred to as his Pulling Jeans.

Mickey’s pulling jeans were dark wash denim. They had no holes or frays. They hugged his hips in just the right way, and somehow they made his legs look a little longer than they really were. Most importantly, however, they made his ass look fucking great.

He was wearing his pulling jeans tonight. He always did when he went out, which was less and less as the years went by. Still, sometimes he felt like a game of pool or a beer and a chat with whoever looked lonely. Sometimes he just felt like dancing.

The Boar’s Nest was good for all of the above, and it was the only gay bar in the area that Mickey actually liked. There were no flashing lights here, no obnoxious twinky barmen trying to sell overpriced cocktails. There were no half naked men gyrated to pumping music that made Mickey’s head hurt. 

In fact, The Boar’s Nest just looked like a nice, normal bar. You wouldn’t have even known it was a gay bar had it not been for the rainbow flags hanging proudly every way you turned.

Mickey had come to dance tonight. It wasn’t often the mood struck him, and he wasn’t exactly a great dancer, but he had long since stopped denying himself little things like this that he wanted. All these years later, it still felt like a little ‘fuck you’ to Terry when he shamelessly sang along to California Gurls in the middle of a crowded bar.

The jeans worked like a charm every time. Tonight, there was a blonde in the corner who couldn’t keep his eyes off Mickey. Mickey was pleasantly buzzed and glowing from the attention. Blondie was cute enough; a little too cookie cutter clean for Mickey’s taste, but that would easily be solved once they were naked. 

So Mickey let him watch. Even put on a little show; wriggling his hips and sucking in the dad bod which was slowly creeping up on him.

It was only a matter of time before Blondie was looming over him, practically salivating over Mickey. His cologne smelled expensive. The hand Blondie placed on the small of his back was broad and warm.

“You want to get out of here, baby?”

_ Not your baby, _ Mickey’s mind automatically supplied, but he just nodded and downed the last of his beer. Once his dick was inside him, Blondie could be anyone Mickey wanted him to be.

They went back to Blondie’s. Mickey never took guys back to his own home; he couldn’t stand the thought of a stranger invading his space like that. Even the handful of could-be boyfriends over the years had never come back to Mickey’s.

Blondie’s apartment was just as cookie-cutter as he was. The kitchen was full of shiny appliances that probably never got used, and the bookcases in the living room were full of books Mickey would bet had never been read.

Still, the bed was big and soft and Blondie seemed just as disinclined as Mickey to speak. He had a big dick though, and pulled off a few moves that had Mickey writhing and moaning. It was quick and efficient, which suited Mickey and his strange mood just fine.

Blondie got Mickey off first then came with a grunt and a shudder before rolling off Mickey’s back with a groan. Mickey rolled over gingerly while Blondie caught his breath.

“You’re a good lay, man.”

Mickey snorted and grinned. “I know.”

“Stay the night, if you want. We can go again in the m- _ awwrn _ ing.” Blondie yawned as he began to fall asleep. Mickey kept back his comment about stamina and lay still for a while while the itch for a cigarette got stronger. Eventually, Blondie was asleep, and Mickey got up to start rooting around his room for some smokes.

He found a pack of Marlboro Golds in the bedside table after a few minutes of rummaging. He hummed his approval and left Blondie sleeping behind him to light up.

He smoked a couple leaning out the window of Blondie’s living room. The night air was cold and refreshing against Mickey’s bare skin. Living on the bottom floor of his building had its perks- the garden, no stairs to lug his tools up, but it meant he never got to watch the city like this. Blondie lived up high, and Mickey hoped there wasn’t a metaphor in there. The city lights stretched out for miles around him. The sounds of the traffic and the party-goers drifted up to Mickey’s window, soothing his mind as much as the smoke and the cold.

To be able to do this, to be able to stand with the soft wind soothing his skin, to be able to smoke a cigarette in peace, to be able to close his eyes and feel his own freedom; it was more than Mickey had once hoped to dream of.

Mickey left a tenner on Blondie’s counter for the smokes before tiptoeing out of the apartment. Outside, the night was still and refreshing. He was halfway home before he realised why he felt so strange.

He felt guilty.

He might be in love with Ian Gallagher.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Thank you so much to the people who left encouraging comments on the last chapter! It had been so long, I was nervous no one would want to read it, but you came back! Thank you so much for that :)
> 
> I forgot to mention in the last chapters notes that I gave Debbie two more kids. I feel like that's the most realistic path for her to be honest, she's a mother through and through. Also, could you tell that I'm a bit in love with Debbie? Probably has something to do with Emma Kenney being sex on legs.
> 
> I like this chapter a lot more, and hope y'all do too, even though I think it's a little shorter.
> 
> Love to everyone who's still reading, and thank you for your patience :)

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Sunshine my arse.”

“Someone’s not too perky today.”

Ian was looking even more beautiful than usual, if that was possible. His hair was tousled and a little damp, like he had just jumped out of the shower. He smelled like lemon soap and laundry detergent. He smelled like a man. Mickey just wanted to breathe him in and in and never stop.

“Coffee.”

“What’s that, Grumbles?” Ian said with a grin, poking at Mickey’s side playfully. Mickey’s heart twinged. He felt selfish, suddenly wanting Ian like this without his knowledge. He felt like he should tell him, so that Ian could recoil back and not touch him so candidly. But he couldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough.

“I  _ said, _ let’s go get coffee. If you want me to remain standing and breathing, I need a fix.”

“Ah, life or death. Come on so, we’ll get you a cup of the good stuff.”

They walked in silence to a nearby coffee shop, and Mickey waited outside with the dogs, shielding his eyes from the sun while Ian bought them coffee.

“Coffee black, my good man.”

“What do I owe you?” Mickey asked as he took his coffee. He wrapped his cold hands around the warm cup, Bailey’s lead looped round his wrist. Ian waved him off and started walking.

“Don’t worry about it. You look like you need it.”

“Thanks a lot.” He couldn’t be bothered to complain. His head hurt and the coffee was hot and bitter and perfect. Ian took a sip of his ridiculous drink, and there was cream on his lip when he lowered his cup. Mickey had to look away to resist the urge to reach up and swipe his thumb over Ian’s top lip, then to hold his thumb to Ian’s mouth so that pink tongue could lick the cream away…

Mickey shuddered and took a gulp of coffee to ground himself. 

“I take it you were out last night, then?”

“Yeah, yeah. Didn’t even drink that much, but my tolerance isn’t what it used to be.”

“Yeah, I get you. I don’t drink much anymore.”

“No?”

“Nah. That time in my life is far behind me.”

Mickey just nodded thoughtfully. He could picture Ian, younger, more lively, dancing and drinking. He wondered if he’d been a real party lover, or if he’d been like Mickey had been; drinking to numb the pain of living. He hoped it was the former.

“Celebrating something? Or just a night out?”

“Night out, I guess. Nothing too wild, just a few drinks at The Boar’s Nest.”

Mickey’s arm jerked back suddenly, and Mickey looked down in surprise. Bailey had stopped walking without warning.

“Jesus!” Mickey righted his coffee cup, which had nearly slipped from his grasp. “Ian?” Bailey was waiting beside Ian, who was frozen on the spot and staring at Mickey. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry! Sorry.” Ian jogged to catch up with Mickey again.

“What the hell was that?”

“Nothing. Just… what were you doing in The Boar’s Nest? Do your friends go there?”

“Well, no. It’s a good bar.”

“But… You know The Boar’s Nest is a… a gay bar, right?”

This was said tentatively, nervously almost. There was a hint of fear in Ian’s voice that made Mickey’s breath catch in his throat. No one had sounded fearful talking to him in a long time. He used to love that sound, rely on that sound, even, to get by, but now it just hurt. Ian had known him when he was a teenager. To Ian, it seemed, Mickey was still a Southside fag-bashing thug.

It was his turn to stop walking now. He stared at Ian, who was biting his lip nervously.

“What do you think of me?”

“I- Mickey, I didn’t mean-”

“Look, I’m not the person I was when I was seventeen. I’m not my fucking dad. I’m  _ gay _ , for fuck’s sake!”

“That’s not what I meant-”

“Here, take your damn dog.” Mickey threw the end of the lead towards Ian. His head was pounding, and the happiness he had been feeling just moments ago had dissipated completely. 

“Mickey, wait!”

Mickey just shook his head and started heading back the way they’d come. He could hear Bailey barking behind him but he was dangerously close to crying and there was no way he was going to turn around. The life he had tried so hard to escape from, the life of crime and drugs, the homophobic, white power family he had turned away from, it was all just behind him, breathing down his neck and reminding him that there were people who would never see him as anything other than the dirty, violent pimp he had once been.

What hurt more than anything was that it was Ian, Ian who brightened his day, sweet, gentle Ian who Mickey couldn’t get out of his head- it was him who still thought these things of Mickey. He would never be good enough for Ian; Ian would never see Mickey the way wanted to be seen.

  
  


~

  
  


Mickey started taking a different route on his morning walk. 

He missed the park. He missed the morning regulars. He wondered how they were. He wondered if they noticed he had stopped coming. He wondered if they gave a shit. They probably didn’t.

A week passed, then two. Mickey hadn’t meant to leave it so long without seeing Ian, but as the days stretched on, the thought of seeing him again felt stranger and stranger. What would he even say? He wasn’t sure if he was in the wrong or not, should he apologise for storming off like that? Should Ian apologise for thinking so poorly of Mickey?

It wasn’t Ian’s fault, Mickey knew. Mickey couldn’t blame him, really. It wasn’t Ian’s fault he still remembered Mickey from what felt like Mickey’s previous life.

But it still hurt. 

He had dared to hope for something unobtainable. He’d dared to hope that maybe he, Mickey Milkovich, was worthy of love. Worthy of a relationship that wasn’t just about sex. He’d dared to hope that maybe, after all these years of busting his balls to become a person he was proud to be, he might be able to fall in love. To be loved by someone. He should have known that Ian Gallagher was too good for him. Shining, sweet, kind Ian Gallagher would always see Mickey for what he really was. Nobody. 

He retreated back into himself. It was how he’d always coped when life let him down in the past, which it had, over and over and over again. He hadn’t been kicked in the teeth like this since he’d been sleeping rough on the streets. Maybe he’d been due to be knocked down a couple of pegs.

He stopped thinking about all the things he’d dared to think about since he’d first met Ian. The fucking fairytale in his head about building a family of his own with a man he loved, of fixing up a little house somewhere for the two of them. The stupid daydreams he’d found himself having of waking up to the sound of the shower running, and of falling asleep with his head on Ian’s chest, which he always imagined as smooth and pale, with a smattering of some ginger hair that would tickle his cheek.

He stopped thinking of all that shit. It hurt too much.

He went back to focusing on what he had, on what was real. On all the things that had been enough for him for years before Gallagher jogged into his life. His job, which he loved. His parents; Packy and Eileen. Mandy. His dog. His little apartment room on the bottom floor with its patch of green garden. The birds that came to peck at the seed he left hanging in the trees. 

He hated that it didn’t feel like enough anymore.

It had been sixteen days since he’d walked away from Ian when the redhead walked right into Mickey’s shop.

Mickey was tinkering with an old radio when the bell above the door rang. He looked up from the bit of old circuit board in his hand, right into Ian Gallagher’s eyes.

He was standing in the doorway, looking as surprised as Mickey felt. The low doorway and shelves crammed with odds and ends were dwarfed by him; tall as he was he. He seemed to fill up the whole room.

Even from several feet away, and despite the smell of metal and lingering turpentine, Mickey could smell him. He smelled like gentle laundry detergent, Old Spice deodorant, and the musky, heady scent of  _ manliness _ that Mickey had been in love with for as long as he could remember. The type of scent his body reacted to before his mind knew what was going on.

They didn’t say anything. Mickey felt frozen. His heart had sped up treacherously and he couldn’t trust himself to speak. Had no idea what he would say if he could. Eventually, Ian spoke.

“There are a lot more hardware stores around here than I would have thought.”

Mickey looked back down at the circuit board. The fuse was bust, he noted dumbly.

Finally, he forced himself to look up. Ian hadn’t moved.

“You looking for something specific?”

“Yeah,” Ian finally began to move into the shop. The walls shrank backwards around him, falling away because Mickey couldn’t comprehend the existence of anything else beyond him. “Yeah, I am.”

“Y-yeah? What are you looking for?”

“Mickey.” Ian had reached the desk now. Only the few feet of wood separated them. Mickey’s stupid hands were shaking. He put down the board.

Ian had put his hands on the table. They were big and broad; a man’s hands. The nails were cut, neat and short and the thick ginger hair that covered Ian’s arms petered out at his wrists, covering his hands with fine blonde hairs. They caught the light from Mickey’s lamp and burned golden.

“Mickey. I was looking for you.”

Mickey looked up. He had to. Ian’s voice pulled him in. 

“Found me.”

“Yeah.” What was he going to say, Mickey wondered? He needs another free fix-it job, the cynical part of his brain told him. He wants to be payed back for that stupid cup of coffee. He wants-

“I’m sorry, Mickey.” 

That caught Mickey off guard. He could count the number of apologies he had received in his lifetime on one hand, and although he had been entertaining the idea of Gallagher apologising to him, it had been highly theoretical and not at all expected. Ian seemed expectant but Mickey didn’t know how to reply. Ian forged on instead.

“What I said, it came out all wrong. I didn’t mean to imply… Look. It’s not that I was surprised you went to a gay bar. When I asked that, it was because I was hoping, okay? I was hoping to God or the Universe or whatever the fuck that I hadn’t misunderstood you. Because,” Ian started to grin sheepishly, leaning against the counter and towards Mickey like he was sagging under the weight of his words.

“Because I had  _ such _ a big crush on you when we were kids.”

Mickey looked up and scoffed. He opened his mouth to retort, to remind Gallagher that at seventeen he’d been a dirty, violent, racist, homophobic little thug; totally lost and loyal to a man who regularly beat the shit out of him. Before he could get all this out, Ian interrupted him.

“ _ Because _ , I never saw you the way other people did, Mick. I knew, I just  _ knew _ you weren’t like your dad, or your brothers, or your cousins. I saw something there that drew me in so much. And what I saw, what I saw is who you are now. You have grown, but also, I think all that good stuff was always there, at least I always saw it! Because, fuck-” Gallagher ran his hand through his hair as Mickey stared at him, wide eyed, terrified and enraptured and in disbelief.

“Because, I was so in  _ love _ with you, when we were teenagers, Mickey. And you never even looked at me, and it broke my heart. And the reason I was so hopeful, when you told me where you’d been that night, when I thought there was a possibility that you were gay too, it’s because I think I might be falling in love with you again.”

Mickey stared. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears and he wasn’t sure if he had heard Ian properly. Ian was in love with him? Falling in love with him? Thought he might be? 

Mickey opened his mouth to respond, to say anything, because Ian’s eyes were so wide and fearful that Mickey had to say  _ something _ , to tell him it was okay, to say he was sorry too, to tell him he had fallen for him somewhere along the line and that the last few weeks without seeing him had been hell-

But then the bell rang.

Both of them jumped; startled to find that the world was still turning around them. Mickey tripped on the leg of his stool as he hurried to greet the man who had just come in, leaving Ian standing by the counter, looking drift..

It was one of Mickey’s regulars, Charles, who worked as a caretaker in a local old folk’s home. There were often little jobs to be done there, which Mickey helped him out with from time to time. He was a good guy, about ten years older than Mickey but they got on well. 

_ I’ll deal with him quickly, _ Mickey told himself,  _ and then I’ll talk to Ian. _

But Charles seemed to have other ideas. After greeting Mickey warmly he launched into a detailed description of a burst radiator in one of the resident’s rooms. Ian stood by the counter, fidgeting nervously while Mickey flicked anxious glances towards him.

After a few minutes, when Mickey glanced up to check on Ian, the door was swinging and Ian was gone.

“Shit,” Mickey muttered. He turned to Charles, who was looking at him inquisitively. “I’ll- I’ll be back in a sec.”

Abandoning rule number one of owning a shop, never leaving it unattended, Mickey bolted out of the door and into the street. Ian was already halfway up the road. How did he move so damn fast? Bloody long legs.

Mickey hurried after him, not even knowing what he wanted to say. He hadn’t quite processed Ian’s words yet.

Mickey reached him finally, and grabbed his shoulder from behind, panting from the impromptu run. “Ian! Wait.”

Ian turned, his big beautiful eyes staring down at Mickey, full of fear and hope.

“You love me?” 

It was the first thing that came out of Mickey’s mouth, unbidden and disbelieving. Ian bit his lip, then slowly nodded.

“I think so,” he whispered.

“Holy shit.” Mickey drew back and dragged a hand through his hair. His mind was whirling. He had spent the last two weeks of torturing himself, convincing himself that Ian thought he was nothing. Now, faced with evidence to the contrary, he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. What could this man, Ian, this beautiful, fascinating man see in Mickey?

_ Maybe, _ that horrible part of Mickey’s brain whispered,  _ maybe he falls in love with lots of people. Maybe when he says ‘love’ he mean nothing by it… When you say ‘love’ you mean forever... _

“Me? Why me?”

Ian shrugged helplessly. “I can’t get you out of my head, Mickey. I don’t want to. I…” Ian scratched the back of his head nervously and blinked his big green eyes. “I’ve never felt so connected to anyone else. I thought… I thought maybe you felt it too.”

Ian looked terrified. Lost and afraid, like a child who can’t find their parents; adrift and floating, hoping to be rescued.  _ Maybe,  _ the more confident corner of Mickey’s brain whispered,  _ maybe he means forever too _ .

“I do,” Mickey whispers. He takes a step closer to Ian. The scent of  _ Ian _ surrounds him, and he has to shut his eyes for a moment, totally overwhelmed. “I feel it.”

Ian lets out a shaky breath that tingles Mickey’s skin. He lifts his hand, cautiously, unsure, and touches his fingertips against Mickey’s bare elbow. “You feel it?”

“Yes.” Mickey whispers. When he feels brave enough, Mickey cracks his eyes open, and the whole world has become Ian Gallagher, closer than he’s ever been before. Mickey can see the tiny freckles on his nose, the rough hint of stubble near his chin that he must have missed this morning, the soft lines by his eyes, the crease in his forehead. His eyelashes are so pale, but surprisingly thick, framing his eyes. His  _ eyes _ . 

A long time passes before Mickey shivers suddenly, exposed to the cold in his thin t-shirt. Ian draws away, leaving him feeling colder, but the way he is smiling makes up for it. They grin at each other, blushing like teenagers.

“I should get back,” Mickey begins gamely, and Ian nods, still smiling like a goon. “Can I see you tonight?”

Ian nods, eyes soft. Mickey’s face heats up even more despite the cold, and he nods awkwardly one last time, his heart fluttering, before turning away and heading back inside to talk about busted radiators with Charles.


	8. Chapter 8

Mickey arrived outside Ian’s door at seven o’clock. He was wearing his nice jeans, his Pulling jeans, and was trying hard not to overthink the implications of that particular wardrobe choice.

He turned around for the fourth time to glare at his reflection in the metal doors of the elevator. He ran his hand through his hair and wondered if he should have done something to it. He unbuttoned his top but. Then buttoned it up again.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered to himself. This was ridiculous; pure madness. He looked  _ nicer _ than usual, and Ian had apparently taken an interest while Mickey was stomping about in his workboots and comfy fleeces. He wiped his sweaty palms decisively against his thighs one last time before ringing the bell.

Ian opens the door almost immediately, and Bailey jumps on him. Mickey is distracted by him for a few moments, bending down to scratch his belly, the way he has learned Bailey likes it. When Mickey looks up, Ian is smiling at him. He looks  _ great _ , properly dressed up in a way Mickey has never seen him, in tight jeans and a shirt that hugs his shoulders well. He’s suddenly glad he dressed up. It seems as though both of them have assumed that tonight is a date.

“Hey,” Ian grins. “You came.”

“You thought I wouldn’t?” Mickey straightens up, keeping one hand on Bailey’s head.

“No. Just really glad you did. You, eh, you wanna come in?”

“Sure,” Mickey replies easily, following Ian inside. 

“You want a beer?”

“Sure,” Mickey says again, taking the beer when it is offered. He uncaps it and takes a drink to do something with his hands. Having not made any proper plans, it seems either of them are at a bit of a loss for what to do. Mickey thought Ian might have wanted to stay home and talk or some shit, but he’s dressed up. Does he want to go out and talk? Does he just want to go out?

Leaning against the counter, Ian is picking at the label on his bottle. He looks anxious as fuck, and Mickey decides it’s up to him to take charge here and suggest something. After all, Ian had made the first move earlier that day when he told Mickey how he felt. Mickey was pretty sure he never would have worked up the courage to do the same.

“You hungry?” Mickey asks, deciding food is a fairly safe bet. Everyone’s gotta eat, right? 

“Yeah,” Ian looks up hopefully. Mickey panics, wracking his brains for an appropriate restaurant to suggest. It occurs to him that he has never taken anyone out to dinner, or any kind of date for that matter. His ‘relationships’ over the years had been about sex, and nothing else.

“You wanna go to Sizzler?” It’s the first place Mickey can think of that isn’t fast food. It’s slightly embarrassing that the nicest restaurant he can think of is a buffet, but Mickey is a simple guy. He’s not into fancy food or expensive things; he just doesn’t see the point in it all. He hopes Ian feels the same way.

Judging by the smile that spreads across Ian’s face, Mickey thinks he does.

“I love Sizzler,” Ian admits. Mickey feels his unease fade. Thank God. He grins at Ian before lifting his beer bottle to his lips and downing the last of it.

“Great. There’s a steak there with my name on it. It’s so rare it’s gonna scream when I bite it.”

Ian laughs at him and pushes away from the counter, abandoning his mostly full beer. “I can drive,” he volunteers. “Not supposed to drink anyway.”

“Oh? Why?”

Ian stills. It’s only for a moment, but Mickey notices. 

“Medication,” Ian says shortly. Mickey nods, dying to ask, but sensing not to push it.  _ He went a bit looper,  _ Mandy’s voice on the phone comes back to him,  _ he was in some mental house somewhere… maybe he tried to top himself… _

So maybe Mandy hadn’t been talking total shite all those weeks before. Maybe he was on antidepressants, Mickey reasoned, but he looked so embarrassed about it. That shit was pretty common these days, no need to be ashamed, in Mickey’s mind.

He shrugged it off though, forcing his thoughts back to the here and now, where he was about to go to dinner with a gorgeous man who he fancied the hole off, and who fancied him back.

  
  


~

  
  


Later, Mickey drops onto his couch, blushing dark red and grinning from ear to ear. The dog trots over to him and bumps his shin with his head. Mickey leans down and hauls him up onto the couch beside him, grunting with the effort. The dog huffs contentedly and lays his head on Mickey’s thigh while Mickey flicks on the TV. There’s an old Friends rerun on, and he settles back in comfort, only half watching.

Sizzler had been  _ great. _ Mickey had no framework upon which to judge the quality of the date, but even so, he knew it had gone well.

He and Ian had piled their plates with very average food before sliding into a slightly sticky leather booth. The lighting wasn’t dark or romantic; there were no candles on the tables, and there was a table with a crying baby not too far away, but it didn’t matter. The pair of them sat grinning at each other the whole time, sometimes talking about work or the dogs, and sometimes just smiling and taking coy glances at the other. Mickey had felt like a kid, nervous but inexplicably excited. He had had damn  _ butterflies, _ for Christ’s sake.

Mickey had a moment of panic when it came time to pay. What were they supposed to do; split the bill? How did it work when they were two guys? In a fit of gallantry, Mickey had thrust his credit card at the waiter, beating Ian who was fumbling with his wallet. For the look Ian gave him for that, Mickey would have gladly emptied his account there and then, for those big green eyes and softly quirked lips.

The thought had ruffled Mickey, and caused him to fuck up his pin. He’d nearly died of mortification when the card was declined and he’d had to punch in the pin again. The waiter had watched him with pursed lips, glancing pointedly at the blurry FUCK on his fingers and handing him his receipt using the tips of his fingers, as though Mickey was going to somehow infect him.

He got that type of thing all the time, and it never failed to make him feel hot with shame and anger. A decade ago that look would have led to the waiter going home with a broken nose and Mickey spending the night in a jail cell. He had resigned himself to those looks now, however. He couldn’t take back that summer’s day when he was thirteen, when Iggy had just come home from Juvie with a newfound passion for tattooing. 

He didn’t even regret it, not really. It was a great memory, despite the grief the tattoos had given him over the years. It had been one of the hottest days of that summer, and he and his brothers were high on the heat and the baggy of weed they’d bought to celebrate Iggy’s return. They had gathered in Mickey’s room and Iggy had tattooed them all. Mickey had been the only one to go for something so visible, despite being the youngest. He’d loved the awed looks his brothers had given him as he proved himself in their eyes. That was the day he’d stopped being ‘the youngest,’ and started just being one of the guys. Better yet, his old man had guffawed and slapped Mickey on the back when he had seen them. It was one of the only times in his life Mickey was sure he had made his dad proud.

That didn’t change how he felt when people looked at them with disgust, however. What had made it worse was that  _ Ian _ had seen that look. Who wants a future with a man who can’t pay for a meal without being judged and sneered at?

He had grabbed the receipt, unable to look at Ian, and turned to head for the door. That was when he had felt a tentative hand slip into the crook of his elbow, and he looked up in shock to find Ian smiling at him, and to his surprise it wasn’t filled with pity or contempt, it was filled with humour. 

His own lips stretched into a smile against his will, and then Ian was grinning, and his shoulders began to shake with laughter. Before he knew it, Mickey was laughing too. It  _ was _ funny. Who the fuck did that guy think he was? He felt sorry for him, really. Judging people without knowing the first thing about them.

“Fuckin’ yuppie,” Ian had said eventually, when their laughter had died down and they’d made it back to his car. Mickey had just nodded, feeling relieved and surprised and fond at Ian. Ian unlocked the car and then let go of Mickey’s elbow to open the passenger door. Mickey climbed in, flustered and blushing so hard he thought he was about to light up.

The best had come, however, when Ian dropped him home.

He’d been wondering all evening what he was going to do at the end of dinner. Should he invite Ian inside? Kiss him in the car? Were they going to fuck? What if Ian liked to bottom too? Was his apartment clean enough? Did he even  _ have _ condoms? He’d eaten a lot of food… was he even up for it tonight?

But when they pulled up outside Mickey’s place, Ian had jumped out of the car before Mickey tried to blunder his way through attempting to kiss him or invite him in. He’d rounded the car in about three strides on those giant legs and opened Mickey’s door again. 

“Hey,” Ian grinned at him when they were both standing outside Mickey’s front gate. “Thanks for tonight, Mickey. I had such a great time.”

“Sure, man,” Mickey replied gruffly. “Anytime. I did too, by the way. Have a great time.”

“Good,” Ian grinned again. He inched closer to Mickey, and then placed a hand lightly on Mickey’s shoulder.  _ This is it, _ Mickey thought with a sudden surge of nerves. Why the fuck did he eat those fried onions with his steak?

Ian leaned in, but then to Mickey’s surprise, he bypassed Mickey’s lips to place a soft kiss on his cheek.

When he drew back, his eyes were glittering, and Mickey felt a deep pull in his belly. He wanted Ian, without a doubt, but this was so much more than sex. Ian’s hand slid down slightly, so it was resting on Mickey’s chest, right above his heart. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he whispered.

Mickey nodded, his eyes flicking between Ian’s lips and his eyes. “Yes,” he said back, and it came out as a whisper. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good,” Ian replied, stepping back and smiling. Mickey grinned back then pushed open his gate and made his way up his driveway. He had nearly reached his door when Ian called out to him again.

“Hey, Mickey?”

Mickey turned to find Ian with one foot in his car and a hand on the bonnet, staring after Mickey with a cheeky grin.

“Yeah?”

“Nice jeans!” Ian winked before swinging himself into his car and revving it to life. Mickey laughed in disbelief as he watched Ian drive off. He didn’t stop smiling for hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we have a date!
> 
> Not much action though, but all in good time. 
> 
> Being a non-American, I have no idea what the hell Sizzler is like, but I'm guessing it's like a family-friendly, traditional American food type of place? Maybe? I just had to give them the date they never got on the show. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! Comments are very much appreciated, they definitely help motivate me to update. Thanks for reading!


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